Frozen: The Black Dread
(I do not own the rights to Game of Thrones/House of the Dragons and Frozen. Those rights respectively belong to Disney and HBO/George R. R. Martin.)

Hey guys I'm back with another chapter. Last we left was booth balerion and Elsa handling their respective "reactions" of their start of a relationship with their friends and family. Today I will bring the focus onto Hans as he will get the spotlight today. With that out of the way let's get started.

Chapter 13
The next morning, Hans's ship docked at the harbor of the Southern Isles. The familiar sight of the royal castle rising above the port city greeted him, but instead of relief, Hans felt a chill settle over him. The tension of his defeat weighed heavily on his mind, and the knowledge that he was returning empty-handed filled him with unease.

As the ship's gangplank was lowered, Hans stepped onto the dock, his sharp features carefully schooled into a neutral expression. Waiting for him on the stone pier was a line of familiar figures: his twelve brothers, each dressed in formal attire that suited their respective roles in the royal court. At the center of them all stood the crown prince, Otto, clad in the finest royal robes, a circlet of gold resting on his head. His sharp eyes bore into Hans with a mixture of disapproval and curiosity.

"Well, well, little brother," Otto said, his voice carrying a sharp edge of sarcasm. "It seems you've returned from your… adventure."

The other brothers murmured among themselves, their expressions ranging from smirks to sneers. Hans knew this reception all too well; he had lived with their ridicule and condescension his entire life. But this time, the stakes were higher, and his failure had left him more vulnerable than ever.

"Crown Prince Otto," Hans said, offering a shallow bow. "It's good to see you again."
"Is it?" Otto replied, his tone icy. "Word travels quickly, Hans. The whispers of your… setback reached us even before you set sail for home. Tell me, how does one lose to a creature out of myth and a mere ice queen?"

The other brothers chuckled, but Hans refused to rise to their bait. He straightened, his expression calm but his mind racing. "I see you're as informed as ever, brother. But setbacks are temporary. Plans evolve. I have learned much, and I intend to put that knowledge to use."

Otto stepped closer, his gaze narrowing. "You've embarrassed this family once before, Hans. Our father gave you the chance to prove your worth by forging alliances in Arendelle, and you failed. And now, you've squandered another opportunity, aligning with a failed champion and losing to a beast that doesn't belong in our world. Tell me, why should we tolerate your presence here any longer?"

Hans clenched his fists at his sides but kept his tone measured. "Because I am still a prince of the Southern Isles. And because I have no intention of giving up. The lessons I've learned will pave the way for success. Mark my words, Otto: this is far from over."

Otto studied him for a moment, then turned to address the gathered brothers. "He speaks of lessons and plans, but what has he to show for it? Nothing but failure. Still, Father may wish to hear his excuses. Let's take him to the throne room."

Hans followed as the brothers turned and made their way up the marble steps leading to the castle. The whispers and laughter of his siblings trailed behind him, but he ignored them. His thoughts were consumed by his next move. Though his defeat in the arena had been humbling, it was also a stark reminder of what he was up against. Balerion was no ordinary foe, and Elsa's strength was far greater than he had anticipated.

But Hans was nothing if not resourceful. His time in the Southern Isles would be spent planning, consolidating his influence, and preparing for the day when he would face them again. He had learned from his mistakes, and he would not repeat them.

As they entered the grand hall of the castle, Hans's mind was already at work, weaving new schemes and plotting his next steps. He may have returned in disgrace, but he would rise again. He had to. Failure was not an option.

The royal chamber was a grand and imposing room, its high vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate carvings and massive chandeliers that bathed the space in warm light. King George sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by his councilors, who were deep in discussion over matters of trade and diplomacy. Despite his advancing age, the king radiated an air of authority. His silvered beard and piercing blue eyes commanded respect, and his presence alone silenced the room when Hans entered with Otto and their brothers.

King George looked up, his gaze sharp as it landed on Hans. "Ah, my son," he said, his voice firm but carrying a hint of curiosity. "You've returned."

Hans bowed low, keeping his expression neutral. "Your Majesty, Father, it's good to be home."
The king gestured to the two empty chairs near him. "Sit. I wish to hear this report myself. Otto, you remain as well."

Hans and Otto took their seats. The councilors shifted uncomfortably, clearly aware of the tension in the room. Otto leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his smirk suggesting he relished the moment.

"Tell me," King George began, leaning forward slightly, "what news do you bring from the north? I've heard troubling whispers about your… endeavors."

Hans hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing his words. "Father, I sought to solidify our position by entering an alliance with forces that could tilt the balance of power in our favor. However, the situation was… more complicated than anticipated."

"Complicated?" the king repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Elaborate."

Hans took a deep breath. "I orchestrated an alliance with a powerful figure—a champion unmatched in combat, known as the Eternal Warden. Our aim was to dominate a grand tournament and seize influence in the region, drawing allies to our cause. However, an unexpected force disrupted our plans: a creature of legend and the Queen of Arendelle herself."

King George's eyes narrowed. "A creature of legend?"

Hans nodded. "A dragon, Father. Not just any dragon, but one called Balerion—the Black Dread. He defeated the Eternal Warden in the arena, earning the favor of the people and strengthening Arendelle's influence. The queen herself—Elsa—was present and seems to have allied with him."
The councilors murmured among themselves, clearly skeptical. One of them, an older man with a thin mustache, leaned forward. "A dragon, Prince Hans? Surely you don't expect us to believe such a tale."

Hans met his gaze evenly. "I've seen it with my own eyes. It is real, and its power is unlike anything we've encountered."

King George tapped his fingers on the table, his expression unreadable. "If this is true, then you've brought not just failure but a new threat to our attention. A dragon allied with Arendelle? That could shift the balance of power in the entire region."

Otto chuckled softly. "It seems our brother has a knack for finding trouble rather than solving it."

Hans ignored the jab and continued. "Father, while this was a setback, it also presents an opportunity. We now know what we're up against, and we can prepare accordingly. The dragon's presence may intimidate others, but it also paints a target on Arendelle. If we act decisively, we can turn this to our advantage."

The king studied Hans for a long moment before speaking. "You've failed to bring us the victory I expected, Hans. Yet, you've returned with information that may prove valuable. For now, I will withhold judgment on your actions. But know this: you walk a fine line. The Southern Isles cannot afford further disgrace."

Hans bowed his head. "I understand, Father. I will not fail again."

King George turned to Otto. "Ensure that Hans remains under close watch. We will discuss how to proceed with this new threat in the coming days. For now, let us return to the matters at hand."

As the council resumed their discussions, Hans sat in silence, his mind racing. Though his father's words stung, he knew this was not the end. If anything, it was the beginning of a new phase. He would find a way to regain his father's favor—and ensure that Arendelle, Elsa, and even Balerion would pay for his humiliation.

Hans straightened in his chair, his voice calm yet deliberate as he addressed his father and Otto. "While the outcome of the tournament was not in our favor, I did not leave the north entirely empty-handed. I secured an alliance with the Duke of Weselton during one of my more discreet dealings in Arendelle prior to the tournament. It was intended as a failsafe, should the tournament take an unexpected turn."

The room quieted again, and the murmurs of the councilors ceased as King George turned his sharp gaze toward Hans. "The Duke of Weselton?" he asked, his tone a mix of intrigue and caution. "And what, pray, does this alliance entail?"

Hans leaned forward slightly, keeping his composure. "The Duke and I share a common goal: to undermine Arendelle's growing influence. He harbors resentment toward Queen Elsa for severing trade ties and damaging his standing among other nations. In exchange for our support, the Duke has pledged his resources—trade fleets, intelligence networks, and political leverage—to aid us in countering Arendelle's growing dominance."

Otto, who had been quietly listening, let out a short laugh. "The Duke of Weselton? The same man who was humiliated and dismissed by Queen Elsa? Forgive me if I fail to see how aligning with a disgraced merchant lord strengthens our position."

Hans met his brother's skepticism with a steady gaze. "Disgraced, yes, but not powerless. Weselton's trade networks remain vast, and his merchants are embedded across the continent. His intelligence on Arendelle's inner workings is unparalleled. With his resources and our might, we could pressure Arendelle from within and without."

King George stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing in calculation. "An intriguing proposition. Weselton is desperate, which makes him pliable. But desperation can also breed betrayal. How do you intend to ensure his loyalty?"

Hans allowed a slight smirk. "By offering him something he desires more than anything: revenge. The Duke's hatred for Elsa runs deep. He believes that helping us will bring her downfall—and restore his own reputation. He knows that failing us would leave him with nothing."

Otto raised an eyebrow. "And if he proves more of a liability than an asset?"

Hans turned to his brother, his tone cold. "Then we remind him of his place. The Duke is a tool, nothing more. One we can discard if he becomes a burden."

King George's gaze lingered on Hans, weighing his words. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. This alliance may prove useful in the days to come. But tread carefully, Hans. If Weselton falters, it will reflect on you."

Hans inclined his head respectfully. "Understood, Father. I will ensure the Duke remains compliant."

The king gestured dismissively, turning his attention back to his councilors. As the discussion shifted to other matters, Hans allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The alliance with Weselton was a gamble, but one that could tip the scales in his favor. Now, he just needed to play his cards carefully—and wait for the perfect moment to strike.

As Hans turned to leave, King George's voice called him back. "Wait, Hans. There's something else I need to know about this… Balerion."

Hans stopped in his tracks, slowly turning back to face his father. The sharp tone in the king's voice indicated genuine interest—a rarity.

"Tell me," George continued, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest of his chair. "What kind of man is he? How does a single warrior dethrone a champion like the one you left behind?"

Hans hesitated for a brief moment, choosing his words carefully. "He's… unlike any man I've ever seen, Father. He fights with a ferocity that defies logic, almost as if he's possessed by something otherworldly. When he's enraged, his strength becomes monstrous, his body radiates heat so intense that even the finest blacksmiths in the arena couldn't bear to stand near him. It's as if he embodies the dragons of the old fairy tales."

King George raised an eyebrow, his curiosity visibly piqued. "Dragons? Those are but myths, Hans."

Hans nodded, the faintest hint of unease crossing his face. "And yet, he fights like one. There's something… primal about him. And it's not just his strength. When the Eternal Warden's mental restraints were unleashed—when he tried to delve into Balerion's mind—it broke him."

George leaned forward, his gaze narrowing. "Broke him, you say?"

Hans nodded grimly. "The Warden was a hardened warrior, undefeated for years, and yet whatever he saw in Balerion's mind utterly shattered him. I don't know what it was, but rumors are already spreading. People are saying it was worse than anything the Warden faced in battle. Worse than death itself."

For a moment, silence filled the chamber. The king's fingers stopped their tapping as he processed this information. His expression shifted to one of deep contemplation, a rare combination of curiosity and caution. "A man who fights like a dragon and carries horrors within him that can crush the minds of even the strongest… Dragons may not exist in this world, Hans, but perhaps their spirit lives on in him."

Hans gave a faint, measured smile. "He's certainly no ordinary man. But I've already taken steps to ensure we learn more. Before leaving Arendelle, I left behind a few… 'birds.' They'll report directly to me—and by extension, to you—on anything Balerion reveals or does."

King George reclined back into his chair, his face betraying neither approval nor disdain. "Good. Keep a close watch on him. A man like that could be a threat—or an opportunity. And Hans…"

"Yes, Father?"

"Make sure you're the first to uncover his secrets. I won't have the likes of Otto—or anyone else—claiming the spoils of your work. Do you understand?"

Hans inclined his head. "Perfectly, Father."

With that, King George dismissed him with a wave of his hand, the faintest glimmer of intrigue lingering in his eyes. As Hans left the chamber, a sense of satisfaction coursed through him. His alliance with Weselton and his careful monitoring of Balerion were already proving their worth. All he needed now was time—and a little luck—to turn the game in his favor.

As Hans strode through the ornate halls of the royal palace, he spotted Otto leaning casually against a pillar, arms crossed and a smug expression on his face. The crown prince pushed off the wall and fell in step beside Hans, his tone dripping with mock cordiality.

"Well, look who's managed to claw back a shred of Father's respect," Otto began, his smirk widening. "Though respect isn't quite the same as trust, is it?"

Hans glanced at him, unimpressed. "It's a small step," he replied evenly. "One that I've had to take for our family's honor more times than you ever have. You wouldn't understand—you've never had to clean up someone else's mess."

Otto raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading into a neutral expression. "You'll have to remind me, dear brother, of what 'messes' I've supposedly made."

Hans slowed his pace, leaning in slightly as he whispered, "The maid. Or did you forget? The alleged incident that could've stained Father's favorite son's reputation forever."

Otto stiffened, his expression darkening. Hans continued, his voice calm yet sharp. "I took the fall for you. Lied through my teeth to save your precious standing in Father's eyes. If I hadn't stepped in, you'd have been the prince of nothing."

Otto's jaw tightened, but he quickly composed himself. "And yet here you are," he countered, his tone venomous, "the prince of cow shit, as you were so lovingly named. Let's not forget your humble origins, Hans."

Hans smiled faintly, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "And let's not forget, brother, that fortunes can change in an instant. Treat me better, Otto, or you might find our roles reversed sooner than you think. Any day, at my liking."

Otto's lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze narrowing. "You'd dare challenge me, the crown prince? The one destined to rule?"

Hans turned fully to face him, his smile now ice-cold. "Destiny is a funny thing, Otto. Sometimes it favors the unexpected. Keep that in mind."

Without waiting for a response, Hans turned and walked away, leaving Otto standing alone in the corridor, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. In his wake, the air was thick with tension, a silent acknowledgment of the growing power struggle between the two brothers. For Hans, it was a victory—a reminder that while Otto might wear the crown one day, Hans was far from out of the game.

As Otto paced the chamber, his mind raced with anger and calculation. Hans' veiled threat echoed in his thoughts, a stark reminder of the delicate balance of power within the royal family. If his father were to learn the truth about the maid or any of Hans' other buried secrets, Otto's standing could be irreparably damaged. He clenched his fists, his determination solidifying into a plan.

Summoning one of his most trusted allies, Ser Brandon the Tall, Otto awaited him in the dimly lit strategy room. The knight entered, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. Bowing respectfully, he awaited the prince's command.

"Ser Brandon," Otto began, his tone calm but laced with authority, "I have a delicate matter that requires your unique… discretion."

The knight straightened. "What is your command, Your Highness?"

Otto stepped closer, lowering his voice. "My brother, Hans, has proven himself both ambitious and dangerous. I want you to follow him—wherever he goes, whatever he does. Do not engage, not yet. Let him think he's untouchable. But keep your distance, and stick to the shadows. I need his schemes uncovered, piece by piece."

Brandon nodded, his expression unreadable. "Shall I confront him if his actions threaten the crown?"

"No," Otto snapped, then softened his tone. "Not yet. The time for confrontation will come, but not by your hand. For now, if you must, aid those who would dismantle his work. Encourage his enemies. Let his web of lies and alliances collapse under its own weight."

The knight's steely gaze met Otto's. "Understood. I will begin preparations immediately. Where do you wish me to start?"

Otto gestured vaguely toward the castle's grand doors. "He will make his moves soon enough. Be ready to follow wherever they lead."

Ser Brandon bowed again, the faint clinking of his armor breaking the silence. "As you command, Your Highness."

As the knight departed to ready himself for the assignment, Otto allowed himself a rare smirk. While Hans may have been skilled in manipulation and scheming, Otto had the resources, allies, and ruthlessness to counter him. This was no longer a sibling rivalry; it was a game of shadows and subterfuge. And Otto would ensure that when the time came, his brother's hard-earned schemes would come crashing down, leaving him with nothing but the ashes of his ambitions.
Ser Brandon's chamber was modest yet organized, a reflection of his disciplined nature. The walls were adorned with banners of his family's sigil and a few relics of his past victories. In the corner stood a sturdy armor stand, holding his trusted plate armor, intricately etched with symbols of loyalty and faith.

He approached the stand with purpose, methodically strapping on each piece of armor. The metal gleamed faintly, polished to perfection yet bearing the scars of countless battles. On his belt, he secured two finely crafted longswords, their hilts engraved with his family's motto, Honor Through Action. Alongside them, he tucked in several daggers, small but deadly, hidden in easy-to-reach locations.

From a locked chest at the foot of his bed, he retrieved a small leather pouch containing carefully prepared vials of poison. Though he despised their use, he understood the necessity of such tools in the murky waters of espionage. "For clean yet bloody works," he muttered to himself, echoing Otto's words.

Finally, he reached for his helmet, an heirloom passed down through generations. Its design was simple but striking—a polished steel visage with narrow eye slits, crowned with a crest shaped like a soaring hawk. Placing it gently on the armor stand for later, he turned to the small wooden cross that hung above his bed.

Kneeling before it, Ser Brandon clasped his hands in prayer, his voice low and reverent. "Lord, guide me in this task. Let me serve my country and my king with honor. Protect me from sin and keep my soul pure, even as I tread this shadowed path. If blood must be spilled, may it be for justice and not vengeance. Grant me the strength to resist the darkness."

Reaching up, he took the small cross with the metal chain from the wall and hung it around his neck. Its weight was both a comfort and a reminder of the burden he carried—not just as a knight, but as a man of faith tested in a world of deceit.

Standing, he gave one last glance at the cross, his resolve strengthened. "Faith, country, king," he whispered, his voice firm. "No matter the cost."

With that, Ser Brandon finished his preparations and stepped into the dimly lit corridor. The shadows seemed to greet him as an old companion, ready to conceal his every move. It was time to begin his mission.

Ser Brandon, cloaked in shadow and concealed beneath his hood, moved silently through the port. The early morning fog provided the perfect cover, masking his figure as he approached the small fishing boat he had commissioned earlier. The captain, a wiry man with a wary gaze, gave him a slight nod, acknowledging the heavy coin pouch Brandon had given him the previous night.

"Keep your vessel ready," Brandon muttered under his breath. "We sail the moment the prince departs."

"Aye, sir," the captain replied, his voice low, sensing the gravity of the mission.

As Brandon scanned the bustling harbor, his eyes locked onto a small fleet of ships anchored nearby. The unmistakable banners of the Duke of Weselton flapped in the breeze—white with a red hawk clutching a golden key. These were no merchant vessels; the warship designs were evident in their reinforced hulls and the cannons lining their sides.

Hans stood on the dock, flanked by armed guards in polished armor and a shadowy group of assassins whose presence exuded menace. Their dark cloaks blended with the mist, but their movements betrayed their lethal purpose. One of them, a tall figure with dual daggers glinting faintly in the low light, seemed to be the leader.

Brandon's sharp eyes noted the careful formation of the group. The guards stood with disciplined rigidity, their weapons sheathed but hands ready to draw at a moment's notice. The assassins, in contrast, moved with calculated grace, their eyes scanning for any potential threats. Hans appeared calm, though Brandon detected a certain tension in his posture as he awaited the arrival of someone—perhaps the Duke himself.

Keeping his distance, Brandon slipped into the shadows of a nearby warehouse, positioning himself for an unobstructed view. His heart pounded steadily, but his mind remained focused. From this vantage point, he could observe without risk of detection, his hood masking his features and his cloak blending into the dim surroundings.

"What game are you playing now, Hans?" he thought, his grip tightening on the hilt of one of his concealed daggers.

The air grew heavier with anticipation as the faint sound of boots echoed from the direction of the flagship. Another group descended the gangplank—a man clad in fine velvet robes adorned with the Duke of Weselton's emblem, accompanied by more soldiers. The man's hawkish features and proud stride confirmed his identity: the Duke himself.

Brandon's lips tightened into a grim line. This meeting was no coincidence. Whatever Hans had orchestrated here would undoubtedly threaten the delicate balance of power. Brandon resolved to keep his presence hidden but his blade ready, for he had a feeling this encounter would lead to far more than simple words.

Hans stood with an air of smug confidence as the Duke of Weselton descended the ramp of his flagship. With a sly grin, Hans mockingly addressed him. "Ah, the esteemed Duke of Weasel Town. How gracious of you to grace us with your presence."

The Duke's face flushed with irritation, but he maintained composure. "It is Weselton," he snapped, his voice sharp yet measured. "A name worthy of respect, Your Highness."

"Of course," Hans replied with a mock bow, the sarcasm dripping from his words. "Forgive my error. Now, shall we get to business?"

The Duke straightened his robes, his tone shifting to one of purpose. "Everything is prepared as you requested. My ships are at your disposal, and I stand firmly with you and, by extension, King George and the Southern Isles. The alliance is strong."

Hans gave a satisfied nod. "Good. We move forward, then. The Southern Isles and Weselton will have their moment in history." He turned to his squire, who had been silently standing by his side. "Inform His Majesty that I depart with the Duke. Make sure any messages from my 'birds' are delivered to the king and the king alone. No detours, no delays."

The squire bowed and swiftly headed toward the Southern Isles' embassy in the city.

With that, Hans gestured to his men, and they began loading supplies and cargo onto the Duke's flagship. Barrels of provisions, crates of weapons, and mysterious sealed chests made their way up the gangplank. The guards and assassins remained vigilant, their eyes scanning the harbor for any sign of trouble.

Hans and the Duke ascended the ramp to the main deck, their figures silhouetted against the morning light. Within half an hour, the ship's sails were unfurled, and the fleet began its slow departure from the harbor. The banners of Weselton flapped proudly in the wind as the vessels moved toward the open sea.

From the shadows of the port, Ser Brandon observed everything with unwavering focus. His hood concealed his face as he signaled to the fishing boat's captain.

"Follow them," Brandon ordered in a low, firm tone. "But keep your distance. Stay just out of sight, and do not draw suspicion."

The captain nodded, and the small vessel slipped quietly out of the harbor, trailing the Weselton fleet like a ghost. Brandon kept his eyes on the ships ahead, his mind racing with questions.

"What is Hans planning?" he wondered. "And how does the Duke of Weselton fit into this scheme?"

As the fishing boat maintained its careful pursuit, Brandon tightened his grip on the cross hanging around his neck. The mission ahead would test not only his skills but also his resolve and faith. For now, all he could do was wait and watch.

And that's the end of that chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed it and if you want leave a review and I'll see you on the next chapter. Until then it's chaoskeeten.