The Warrior Mage of Westeros

As the heavy wooden door creaked shut behind Grand Maester Pycelle, the old man shuffling out with his robes trailing behind him, Harry's sharp eyes flicked over to the dark stone walls of the chamber. With a flick of his wrist, he muttered an incantation under his breath. A shimmering ripple of magic stretched across the air, glimmering with intricate sigils and patterns before settling into a steady hum. The wards were in place—an impenetrable veil to guard against eavesdropping.

"Secure now," Harry said, his voice cold with focus. He turned back to Ned Stark, the room's heavy atmosphere matching the weight of their conversation.

Ned Stark, ever the solid figure of responsibility, gazed at him gravely. His furrowed brow was the only indication of the tension gnawing at him beneath the surface. "The Lannisters arrived yesterday. They've been quartered in the Red Keep's east wing. With Ser Gregor Clegane among them, we must be cautious. Tensions are high," he said, his voice a low murmur of urgency.

Harry's expression turned solemn, a flicker of understanding passing through his green eyes. "I had heard of their arrival," he said, his voice steady, but the tension in his jaw was palpable. "Given who's with them, we'll have to tread carefully. Clegane is... unpredictable."

Ned nodded grimly. "That's an understatement. The Mountain is a beast with no sense of restraint. I've seen his work firsthand—it's not just cruelty, it's madness."

Harry gave a tight nod, his eyes hardening with resolve. "I'm well aware," he replied, his voice taking on an edge. "I've been preparing for this. Clegane's strength is brute force, but that's not all there is to a fight. I've already taken steps."

Ned's gaze darkened with concern, his rough features tightening as he leaned forward, his voice low, cautious. "How do you plan to confront him? The Mountain is a monster, Harry. Even with your training, he's not someone you want to face unprepared."

Harry's lips pressed into a thin line, but his tone remained calm, almost reassuring. "I've conducted the necessary rituals. My strength won't be an issue. Speed, agility, endurance—these are my advantages." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the weight of what he was about to say. "I will not fail."

Ned's eyes, usually so steadfast, flickered with a concern that ran deeper than simple fatherly worry. "I don't doubt your abilities," he said, voice rough but sincere. "But Clegane has no honor. He is a wild animal in human form. You can't simply match him blow for blow. If you're going to fight him, you'll need more than just speed. You'll need... cunning."

Harry's gaze never wavered, his expression remaining as stone-cold as Ned's own. "Honor doesn't mean much when you're facing a monster," Harry replied, his voice harsh but unyielding. "Honor might have a place in the battlefield, but when it comes to men like him—men who kill babies and defile women with blood still on their hands—honor is irrelevant." He leaned forward slightly, eyes locking onto Ned's. "This isn't about honor, Lord Stark. This is about justice. And that's something I'm willing to see through, no matter the cost."

Ned's face softened, a moment of quiet understanding flashing across his features. His heavy sigh filled the room, his hand briefly rubbing over his brow. "I understand your fire, Harry," he said quietly. "But I've seen too many good men throw themselves into a fight for justice and never return. You are more than just a warrior now; you're a symbol. Don't let that be lost in your rage."

Harry's eyes softened for the briefest moment, but his resolve remained unbroken. He straightened, his posture firm, and his voice steady. "I won't lose, Lord Stark. You have my word. I'll fight for justice, and for the innocent. But I won't let Clegane walk away from this unscathed."

Ned nodded slowly, eyes still troubled. "I wish I could share your certainty, Harry. But promise me this—whatever happens, you will be careful. The Mountain's death would not be a simple victory. It will make enemies of those who should be allies."

Harry's lips curved into a small but resolute smile. "Don't worry, Lord Stark. I'm not a fool. I'll make sure my victory doesn't come at a price I'm not willing to pay."

A long silence hung between them, thick with the weight of the coming storm. Finally, Ned stood, his steel-gray eyes sharpening with a quiet, reluctant approval. "You are a part of the pack now, Harry. And that means you carry the weight of our house with you. Just don't forget that. You may walk your own path, but you're never truly alone."

Harry's expression softened, his voice low but sincere. "I know, Lord Stark. And I'll remember that."

With a final, meaningful look, the two men parted, each walking their own path of duty and responsibility. The looming shadows of the Red Keep whispered their secrets, and the coming days would test them both. But Harry knew, deep down, that the fight for justice—and for the innocent—was one he would never back down from.

—

The arrival of Oberyn Martell and his retinue at King's Landing was nothing short of a spectacle. The heat of the city, stifling and oppressive, seemed to bow under the weight of their presence. The grimy streets of King's Landing parted before them like a sea of whispers, the crowd moving aside with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Oberyn, as always, commanded attention effortlessly—his vivid crimson cloak flowing behind him, the golden sun and spear embroidered across his chest glinting in the light. At his side was his lover, Ellaria Sand, her beauty as fierce and enigmatic as her words, with dark eyes that seemed to see through the world itself.

Behind them, the Sand Snakes moved in perfect formation, a storm of fury and grace. Obara Sand, the eldest, rode with her usual intensity. Her dark eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk, every movement of the people, every whispered word, cataloged in her mind. Nymeria Sand, quieter but no less deadly, kept her gaze fixed forward, her mind always calculating. Tyene, the youngest but no less sharp, wore a seductive smile that betrayed her readiness to strike. Daemon Sand, Oberyn's former squire, now a knight in his own right, rode beside his sisters, his dark gaze unwavering.

But it was the mysterious figure among them that drew the most attention—a tall, slender figure draped in dark robes, their face concealed beneath the shadow of a deep hood. They moved with an eerie grace, the crowd parting around them as if sensing the air of secrecy that surrounded this person.

As they made their way down the bustling streets toward the Red Keep, Obara's sharp voice cut through the tension that hung heavy in the air. "Father," she asked, her tone neither challenging nor uncertain, but carefully measured, "how do you judge Peverell's chances against the Mountain?"

Oberyn's eyes flicked to his daughter, his lips curving into a slight smile, though there was no humor in his gaze. "Peverell is no ordinary fighter, Obara. To best the Kingslayer in single combat speaks of a rare and formidable skill." He paused, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword, the weight of his years of vengeance pressing down on him. "Yet the Mountain... he is no mere man. He is a beast forged in the crucible of brutality—a creature of sheer violence and power."

Obara's eyes narrowed slightly, her lips pressing together in concern. "But the Mountain fights with a savagery that knows no bounds. Peverell will need more than skill. He will need something else—a readiness for a fight where honor is nothing but a distant memory."

Oberyn turned his gaze toward the horizon, his expression darkening. "You speak true," he said, his voice cold with the recollection of past battles. "The Mountain's ferocity is a weapon unto itself. But Peverell is not the kind of man to shy away from such a fight. He will need both cunning and strength to overcome him."

Nymeria, ever the strategist, spoke up with her usual steady urgency. "And should Peverell fail? What then? What if he cannot vanquish the Mountain? What are we prepared to do?"

There was a moment of stillness, and all eyes turned to the mysterious figure riding silently among them. The figure shifted slightly, their presence like a shadow that deepened with every second. A soft, but commanding voice emerged from beneath the hood, the words carrying an authority that seemed to echo from some distant place. "We must place our trust in Peverell's prowess," they said, their tone betraying a weight of power, though their face remained hidden. "Should he prove victorious, we are prepared. If not, our course must remain unchanged."

Oberyn regarded the cloaked figure for a long moment, a flicker of something—respect, perhaps—passing across his features. His voice, when he spoke, was tinged with a quiet resolve. "Indeed. Our purpose remains clear. Justice for the blood of our kin, no matter the cost. Whether Peverell succeeds or fails, we will see this through."

Obara's expression softened, her fierce determination now tempered by the weight of their shared mission. "Then we march with hope, tempered by caution," she said, her voice steady. "We will see our cause fulfilled, whatever the outcome."

Nymeria nodded, her eyes reflecting a cold, unwavering resolve. "We are united in this purpose. Justice will be done, and the blood of our family shall not be spilled in vain."

Ellaria Sand, her gaze sharp and calculating as always, spoke from behind Oberyn. "We all know the stakes, but if Peverell falls, we will act swiftly. We cannot afford to wait for another opportunity to avenge our family."

Daemon Sand, his posture proud and unyielding, chimed in with his deep voice, "I am ready to see justice done, whatever that may require."

The wind picked up as they neared the gates of the Red Keep, and the city's oppressive heat seemed to close in around them, as if the very air was charged with the tension of what was to come. The cloaked figure, their presence still a mystery, moved with the grace of someone well-versed in matters far beyond the mundane. Their purple eyes, glowing faintly beneath their hood, betrayed an ancient knowledge, a depth of purpose that even Oberyn seemed to respect.

As they approached the Red Keep, the promise of the trial by combat loomed large. Oberyn's face set into a mask of grim determination, his eyes hardening with the resolve of a man who had waited too long for this moment. "Let the Mountain come," he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing with a cold fury. "The justice of our house will be served, one way or another."

With that, the Martell party pressed forward, the city's shadows deepening behind them, and the enigmatic cloaked figure in their midst adding an air of mystery to their already formidable presence. The sands of Dorne had finally arrived in King's Landing, and they would not leave without ensuring that justice would be done.

—

The Tyrells arrived in King's Landing as the sky burned with the last hues of daylight, their procession a spectacle of grandeur as it wound through the narrow, crowded streets. The clattering of hooves and the rustling of elaborate tapestries strung across the procession echoed through the capital. Lady Olenna Tyrell, sharp-eyed and every inch the matriarch, rode at the front, her age and wisdom reflected in the regal greens and golds that adorned her dress. She sat tall in her saddle, casting a cool and calculating gaze over the city she was about to enter with all the subtlety of a lioness entering a den of sheep.

Beside her, her son Mace Tyrell, bloated with pride and a bit of pomp, puffed out his chest as if the very streets would bow to him. His wide-brimmed hat sat atop his round face, a symbol of the Tyrell family's wealth and apparent importance. He glanced at Olenna with a smile that suggested he was ready to revel in the attention, but it was clear she paid little mind to his antics.

Alerie Tyrell, silent and graceful, rode just behind them, her serene face betraying none of the fatigue of their long journey. Her presence was soothing, the calm at the eye of the storm, though her keen eyes missed nothing as they took in the crowds. Margaery Tyrell, poised as ever, sat near her mother, the beauty and grace of her countenance always an asset in these political games. Her eyes scanned the surrounding streets, calculating the significance of each face, each whispered rumor that stirred the air.

"Ah, King's Landing," Olenna muttered, her voice as dry as the cracked stones beneath them. "How wonderfully dreary it remains. I had hoped the capital might have dressed itself up a bit more for our arrival, but I suppose that's too much to ask."

Mace chuckled, oblivious to the thinness of her words. "Ah, Mother, always with your humor. King's Landing is bustling, can't you feel it? The excitement, the tension—tomorrow's trial by combat will be a grand affair. I've heard that Peverell is no slouch in a fight."

Olenna raised an eyebrow, eyeing her son with a mixture of exasperation and affection. "Yes, Mace, we've all heard the rumors. I'm sure Peverell is as skilled as they say. But what does that matter? The Mountain is a beast—he's as likely to tear Peverell in half as he is to lose his own head. And here you are, puffing out your chest like a rooster in a henhouse. Keep your wits about you, Mace."

Mace's pride wavered for a brief moment, but he straightened in the saddle, trying to recover. "I just think it's quite the spectacle. It'll be something to remember. Can't imagine the outcome won't shift things. One way or another."

Margaery's voice cut through the air, smooth and measured as always. "We must remember that tomorrow's trial will not be just a test of strength, but of power. The Mountain's victory would solidify the Lannisters' control, and a victory by Peverell would change the balance of power. It's more than a simple fight."

Olenna's lips curled into a slight smile, pleased by her granddaughter's insight. "Exactly, Margaery. A victory by Peverell could ignite more than just the usual chaos—it could send shockwaves through the realm. And chaos, my dear, is something we must always be prepared to use to our advantage."

Willas, his expression always one of deep thought, added, "The aftermath will be crucial. A change in the power structure could alter everything. If Peverell wins, there will be new alliances to forge. If he loses… well, we'll need to plan for that as well. The Lannisters will not be so quick to relinquish their hold."

Alerie glanced at her sons, the subtle strain of worry creeping into her expression. She had always understood that the Tyrells could not afford to be caught unaware. "Are we truly ready for whatever comes next?" she asked softly.

Garlan, the youngest of the Tyrell children, was ever the one to speak plainly. "Ready or not, we must act. The Mountain is a monster, and Peverell may be more than a match for him. But I'm certain we'll need to adapt quickly, depending on the outcome."

Olenna regarded Garlan with approval. "Exactly. We must be prepared for both possibilities. The world moves swiftly, and if you're not ready to keep pace, you're already behind."

As they approached the Red Keep, the grandiosity of their arrival was not lost on the onlookers. The gilded armor of the Tyrells seemed to gleam under the setting sun, their entourage a mobile vision of wealth and status. But the moment their eyes fell upon the imposing form of the Mountain standing like a shadow at the gates of the Red Keep, the weight of what was to come settled heavily over them.

"Well, there's the beast himself," Mace muttered, eyeing Gregor Clegane from a distance, his bravado quickly shrinking under the gravity of the moment.

Olenna's lips thinned. "I do hope you're not under the illusion that we're here to watch some grand circus, Mace. We're here to play the game. And in this game, only the clever survive. The Mountain's presence may be terrifying, but it's the aftermath we need to focus on. We must be ready for whatever may follow. And Margaery, darling, don't forget: when the dust settles, your name may be the one everyone remembers."

Margaery, ever poised, offered her grandmother a tight smile. "I haven't forgotten. In King's Landing, survival is a game best played with patience."

The Tyrells rode toward the Red Keep, the opulence of their arrival a stark contrast to the tension that simmered beneath the surface. As night fell and the trial loomed on the horizon, the family prepared themselves for the game ahead. In the court of thorns and roses, the Tyrells were ready to make their move—whatever the outcome of the trial.

—

Tywin Lannister's study within the Red Keep was bathed in the dim, amber glow of the late afternoon, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the world outside. Shadows crept along the floor and walls, their long, creeping fingers seeming to echo the building tension within the room. Jaime Lannister, his back stiff and shoulders squared, sat before his father, his face a mask of barely contained frustration. The bruises from his humiliating defeat still lingered beneath his fine clothing, a reminder of the bitter truth that he, Jaime Lannister, had been bested in combat.

Flanking Tywin were his brothers, Kevan and Tygett. Both men were as stern and unyielding as the stone walls of Casterly Rock, their expressions set in the same disapproving grimace that had followed Jaime's every misstep since childhood. Tywin's icy, piercing gaze never left Jaime as he spoke, his voice a quiet, lethal thing that felt like it was cutting through Jaime's resolve with every word.

"Jaime," Tywin began, his tone dripping with disdain, "you faced this Peverell in single combat, and yet you lost. Explain yourself."

Jaime's jaw clenched, his pride still smarting from the defeat. He met his father's gaze with defiance in his eyes, refusing to show weakness. "He's no ordinary fighter, Father," Jaime said, his voice steady despite the lingering bitterness. "Peverell is quick, he's unpredictable. He moves in ways I've never seen before. I couldn't land a blow before he was gone."

Tywin's eyes narrowed, his lips barely twitching in displeasure. The words that followed were as cold and precise as a blade. "And yet, you lost." It wasn't a question. It was a judgment.

Kevan, leaning slightly forward in his seat, gave Jaime a pointed look. His voice was a low, mocking drawl, barely covering the contempt he felt. "It's difficult to defend one's honor when one's sword arm is as lacking as your reputation, Jaime." He couldn't resist adding the bite, his words deliberately sharp, a barb he knew would stick.

Jaime bristled, his knuckles whitening as his hands gripped the arms of his chair. He had always despised Kevan's self-righteous attitude, but now, in the wake of his defeat, it was worse than ever. Before he could retort, Tygett, ever the quieter but no less malicious of the two, joined in, his voice a casual drawl. "I suppose it's hard to fight with skill when one's head is so full of pride. Peverell had the advantage of being humble, it seems."

The venom in Tygett's voice stung more than it should have, but Jaime refused to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. He glared at both of them in turn, but his focus remained on his father. "He's fast," Jaime repeated, trying to make his case, even as the weight of his brothers' ridicule settled heavy on his chest. "But he's no match for the Mountain's strength. That's where he's vulnerable."

Tywin's gaze sharpened, but there was no mercy in it. "Yes," he said slowly, contemplating Jaime's words, "but strength alone will not win this fight. What of his defenses? His weaknesses?"

Jaime exhaled through his nose, irritation flooding his senses. "His defenses are strong," he admitted, begrudgingly. "But if there's any chink in his armor, it's his arrogance. He fights with the confidence of a man who's never tasted defeat. If you can get under his skin, rattle him..." His voice trailed off, an unspoken hope lingering in the words.

Tywin's lips curled, the faintest hint of approval flickering in his gaze. "Pride," he said, his voice turning as slippery as oil. "Yes, that could be his downfall. All men have pride, Jaime. Even the greatest of them."

Kevan leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It's always their pride that leads to their undoing," he remarked, as though he had long since learned this lesson the hard way.

Tygett snorted lightly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "And a bit of humility, perhaps, would have spared you the embarrassment of having to explain this defeat to Father."

Jaime's temper flared, but he bit down hard on the urge to lash out. He would have his moment later, when it truly mattered. "I've already told you, I know my mistakes. We just need to focus on his weaknesses."

Before anyone could respond, the door to the study creaked open, and the hulking form of Ser Gregor Clegane—The Mountain—stepped into the room. His enormous figure filled the doorway, and his silence was more oppressive than the harshest words. His eyes, cold and empty as a well, flicked over the gathered Lannisters with a passing disinterest before settling on Jaime.

Jaime stiffened, involuntarily. The Mountain was a force of nature, an instrument of death and destruction, and yet, he was nothing compared to the will of his father. His heart skipped a beat, but he held himself steady.

Gregor said nothing, but his massive fists flexed at his sides, as though already imagining the sensation of Peverell's skull shattering beneath his hands. Jaime swallowed, the image of that brutality unsettling him more than he cared to admit. He looked back to his father, who regarded Gregor with the same cool calculation he had given Jaime.

Tywin's voice broke the silence. "Ser Gregor, I trust you'll be prepared for tomorrow's trial. We cannot afford to fail." His tone was devoid of warmth, but not lacking in authority.

Gregor nodded silently, his expression unreadable. He never had much to say. Actions spoke louder than words for him.

Jaime's hand absently grazed the bandages that wrapped around his torso, a bitter reminder of the damage Peverell had done. "We need to make sure the Mountain's brutality counts for something," Jaime said, refocusing his thoughts. "I still believe Peverell's arrogance will be his undoing."

Tywin, as always, was calculating, his mind already formulating plans. "We shall see. We will use whatever leverage we can to ensure victory." His eyes locked on Jaime's, the weight of Lannister expectation crushing. "Do not fail again."

Jaime's pride bristled at the command, but he kept his thoughts carefully guarded. "I won't," he said simply, knowing his words would mean little in the face of his father's judgment.

Tywin dismissed them with a slight flick of his hand, and as Jaime left the study, he could feel the eyes of Kevan and Tygett burning into his back, their mocking smirks still lingering in the air. With every step he took, the weight of his failure—and the pressure to succeed—grew heavier.

The hour of reckoning was drawing near. Tomorrow's trial by combat would not only determine the fate of Peverell but would also set the stage for the Lannisters to remind the realm just how powerful their name truly was.

—

In the dim glow of the flickering candlelight, Petyr Baelish, known to most as Littlefinger, reclined on the chaise longue in his personal parlor. The room was an opulent affair, bathed in the warmth of golden tapestries that adorned the walls, their intricate patterns seeming to move in the soft light, as if they held secrets of their own. The velvet cushions of the chaise cradled his slight frame, and the carved wood of the chair's frame gleamed, kissed by the candle's light, a testament to his taste for the finer things in life.

Despite the grandeur of his surroundings, there was something unsettling about the atmosphere—an almost palpable tension that hung in the air. The scent of exotic perfumes blended with the faint sounds of the city below, but in here, only silence reigned, save for the rustle of parchment beneath his long, slender fingers. Petyr's cold, calculating eyes scanned the ledger in front of him, the parchment heavy with names and numbers, both of which served his greater ambitions. He had learned long ago that power was as much about control of information as it was about control of wealth.

"A rare opportunity," he thought to himself, his lips curling into a thin smile. "The trial by combat, the Mountain against Peverell. The stakes couldn't be higher."

He absently stroked his fingers along the edges of the ledger, the sound of paper brushing paper like whispers of a plan taking shape. Petyr's eyes gleamed as he traced his thoughts. "The Mountain is predictable, yes... but there's something about Peverell—something dangerous." But the danger was precisely what made it so appealing. "A man who can stand toe to toe with the Mountain... what a spectacle."

He muttered aloud, his voice smooth and languid, thick with the confidence that only Petyr Baelish could possess. "It's a sure bet. Clegane will crush Peverell, just as he's crushed so many before him." His voice was soft, but his words were cutting, full of that unsettling calm that made everyone around him uncertain of their own thoughts. "All that bloodshed, all that chaos... it's bound to end in profit for someone with foresight."

Littlefinger looked around the room, as if searching for an invisible audience. There was no one here, of course. No one save the shadows that crept along the walls, just as they had in the backrooms of every brothel and tavern he owned. "Let them think it's fate. Let them think it's justice. It's all the same in the end."

He slowly placed the ledger down on the nearby table, his fingers trailing over the silk cover, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "You see, in the game of thrones, it's not about which side you take," he mused aloud, to no one in particular. "It's about knowing when to be the side." His voice, low and contemplative, was that of a man who'd long since abandoned the notion of fairness. "Everyone has their price. Everyone has their weaknesses. Including Peverell."

The flicker of a candle caught his gaze, and Petyr's lips twitched into a knowing smirk. "If Peverell falls... and when he does... well, there's profit to be made." His eyes danced, calculating, already weaving a dozen schemes at once. "In a city like King's Landing, blood means gold. It always has."

He picked up his cup of wine from a nearby table, swirling it absently as his thoughts continued to whirl. "The Mountain is a brute, predictable in his rage. But Peverell... he's the wild card. Dangerous, but that's what makes him interesting. Even wild cards can be bent, if one knows how to play them."

His words hung in the air like the faintest hint of a poison, settling in the room like a slow, deliberate malice. Petyr's eyes narrowed slightly, considering how best to turn this uncertainty into his advantage.

He took a sip of his wine, savoring it, though the taste was lost on him. His mind had long since moved past trivial pleasures. "Perhaps I can fan the flames of doubt, whisper in the right ears. If Peverell survives... well, there's more than just gold to be gained." His gaze became distant, as if already seeing the aftermath—the people who would seek his counsel, the leverage he would have, the debts he would call in when the time was right.

He leaned back against the velvet cushions, allowing himself the briefest of indulgences—a satisfied, knowing smile. "Ah, but if Peverell falls... I will make sure that I am the one who benefits most of all." His voice took on an almost lyrical quality, smooth like liquid silk. "It's all about timing, you see. Everything has its moment."

The door to the parlor creaked open, and a slight figure stepped inside—a servant, probably—interrupted by Petyr's voice, almost as if the man had summoned them.

Littlefinger's eyes flickered briefly, before his gaze returned to the room's otherworldly stillness. "Yes," he thought, "let the Mountain do the dirty work. Let him take Peverell's life. It will only leave me with more... opportunities."

He placed the cup back on the table with a soft thud, his hand brushing over the surface like the final stroke of an artist's brush. "In the end," he said softly, almost to himself, "it's always about who can survive the game... and who can profit from the pieces left behind."

—

The room was heavy with the scent of burning wood, the fire crackling as it danced in the hearth. A map of Westeros lay sprawled across a large table, its details faintly illuminated by the dim glow of the flames. The map's intricate lines—rivers that twisted like serpents, mountains that rose like jagged teeth—were surrounded by goblets, daggers, and scrolls, evidence of the planning that had consumed them for hours.

Harry stood beside Daenerys, both of them bent over the map in quiet discussion. His finger traced the path to King's Landing, his mind already half in the future. Daenerys, her brow furrowed in concentration, pointed out a weakness in their strategy with a calm assurance that Harry had come to admire deeply. Her silver-gold hair shimmered like liquid moonlight in the firelight, and there was a steel to her voice, despite the soft cadence of her words.

Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through the chamber, breaking their quiet exchange. Harry looked up, his gaze meeting Daenerys's, a silent question flickering between them.

With a fluid movement, Harry crossed the room and swung open the door. Standing in the doorway was Jon Snow, his jaw set and his dark eyes heavy with the weight of something unspoken. His presence seemed to draw the warmth from the room, the air growing heavier with his arrival.

"Jon," Harry greeted, stepping back to allow him entry. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Jon entered, his boots heavy on the floor, and he glanced from Harry to Daenerys, his gaze lingering a moment longer on her. He nodded curtly in her direction before turning his attention back to Harry, the tension in his stance undeniable.

"I need to speak with both of you," Jon said, his voice low and tinged with concern. The shadows under his eyes deepened, the faint signs of worry impossible to ignore.

Harry closed the door behind Jon, the familiar creak of the wood a reminder that the night had fallen thick and quiet around them. Daenerys straightened, a glint of curiosity in her eyes as she watched Jon closely.

Jon took a breath, his lips pressed together for a moment before he spoke. "It's about your fight tomorrow, Harry." His voice was soft but laced with urgency. "I fear you're walking into a deathtrap, one you don't fully understand."

Daenerys's gaze sharpened, the icy resolve that she so often carried creeping into her features. Her eyes locked with Jon's. "What danger?" she asked, her voice cool, the French lilt of Fleur's accent curling softly at the end of the sentence.

Jon's expression darkened as he stared at the ground, clearly struggling with what he needed to say. "Ser Gregor Clegane is no mere man," Jon continued, his words deliberate, each one punctuated by the weight of his concern. "He is a beast, a monster masquerading in human flesh. His fighting... it's not just brutal; it's methodical, unrelenting, and savage. He doesn't just kill his enemies. He destroys them. There's no honor in his style. Only carnage."

Daenerys's jaw tightened as her gaze flicked to Harry, her hand instinctively reaching out to him, fingers brushing against his in a gesture both protective and intimate. "And you think Harry doesn't understand what he's walking into?" she asked, her voice steely, her grip firm.

Jon looked at her, meeting her unwavering gaze with a quiet sorrow in his own. "No, Dany," he said softly, his voice edged with emotion. "I'm not questioning Harry's skill. But there's no way to prepare for a fight with a man like that. Clegane is beyond the realm of normal men. He's a creature forged in blood and battle. If Harry doesn't account for that... I fear it will be too late."

Harry met Jon's eyes, his expression calm, but the weight of Jon's words wasn't lost on him. He held Jon's gaze with quiet resolve, his voice steady but laced with the certainty of a man who knew the stakes. "I understand, Jon," he said. "I know what I'm facing. I won't underestimate him." He paused, stepping closer to Jon, their shared history and bond clear in the silent space between them. "But I won't back down, either."

Jon's face softened, his concern not lessening but being tempered by the strength of Harry's conviction. "Just... be careful," Jon murmured. "You're not just facing the Mountain. You're facing a force of nature, a monster in human form. It won't be just about skill. It will be about survival."

Daenerys, her fingers still clasped around Harry's hand, her eyes bright with fire, stepped forward, her gaze now sharp with a protective edge. "We'll be with you, Harry," she declared, her voice firm, the soft, lilting French accent sharpening with every word. "You will not face this alone. Whatever you need, we will be there, beside you."

Harry's lips quirked upward in a faint, grateful smile, and he squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Dany," he said, his voice low with gratitude, but his eyes burning with the intensity of his own will. "And thank you, Jon. Your loyalty means more to me than any sword or armor."

He turned to face both of them, his voice growing firm with each word. "But know this. When I face the Mountain, it won't be just my strength that will carry me. It will be the strength of all who stand with me. We are not just individuals fighting for ourselves. We are a force, united in purpose and blood."

His gaze flicked from Jon to Daenerys, then back to Jon. "Let the enemies of House Stark, House Targaryen, and House Peverell know this: Winter is Coming for them, reborn from the ashes, we will rise. We bring fire and blood to those who stand against us, and they will rue the day they dared cross our path."

The words hung in the air, charged with power, and the fire crackled in agreement, as if the very room itself had come alive with the strength of their shared resolve. In that moment, the bonds between them—of family, of loyalty, of shared destiny—were stronger than any sword. Together, they would face the storm, and together, they would conquer.

---

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