Chapter Text
Jon woke with the taste of ash in his mouth.
The dream—or memory—clung to him stubbornly: a hooded figure at the ridge, the wind roaring like a living thing, the words whispered as if meant for his bones alone.
Unleash the dragon.
He sat up slowly on his pallet, Ghost lifting his head at once, red eyes watching him with quiet concern. Outside the tent, the sounds of the tourney grounds were already stirring—hammer on anvil, men shouting, horses snorting—but Jon felt strangely distant from it all, as if some part of him still stood at the edge of that dark drop, staring down.
He had gone to the godswood before dawn.
The Red Keep’s godswood was no Winterfell—no ancient heart tree towering white and red, no deep hush that pressed close like a mother’s arms. This one was smaller, tamer, the weirwood twisted and stunted, its face half-erased by time and neglect. Jon had knelt anyway.
He had pressed his palm to the bark and whispered, asking for the voice he had heard before. The presence that had once filled his dreams with cold certainty and distant purpose.
‘Speak to me’, he had prayed. ‘Tell me what I am meant to do.’
The tree had remained silent. No whisper. No raven. No guidance.
Only the faint sound of the city beyond the walls and the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.
As he dressed for the day’s tilts, another absence gnawed at him just as sharply.
Ned Stark had not come to him. Had not spoken to him. Had not even looked at him.
Jon caught glimpses of his father from afar—grave, distracted, moving through the crowd as if weighed down by unseen chains—but whenever Jon drew near, Ned turned away or was suddenly called elsewhere.
‘What have I done?’ Jon wondered again, helplessly. ‘What does he know?’
The thought followed him all the way to the lists.
The sun was higher today, the heat already pressing down on the tiltyard, glinting off armour and helms until the lists shimmered like a field of mirrors. The stands were packed tighter than the day before, word having spread of the Stark bastard’s unexpected skill—and of Ser Hugh’s brutal death.
Jon sat his horse at the far end of the tilt, reins loose in his hands, breathing slow through his nose as the herald’s voice rang out.
“Jon Snow of Winterfell—”
A ripple of murmurs, curious and uncertain.
“—against Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers.”
That brought cheers.
Jon did not need to see the stands to know where they came from. Ser Loras rode out in green and gold, roses worked delicately into his armour, his helm crested with flowers so bright they seemed almost foolish beneath the sun. He looked every inch the champion the south adored—young, beautiful, confident.
‘And deadly’, Jon reminded himself.
Loras gave him a courteous nod across the tilt, lance resting easy in his grip. No mockery there, no disdain—only calm focus. That, more than arrogance, unsettled Jon.
The horn sounded. They spurred forward together.
The world narrowed to the thunder of hooves, the rattle of armour, the straight white line of the tilt rushing toward him. Jon lowered his lance, sighting along it as he’d been taught, steadying his breath—
Impact.
The force jarred him to the teeth. His shield rang like a bell struck hard, pain blooming along his shoulder as Loras’s lance shattered cleanly. Jon’s own glanced off Tyrell’s shield, splintering but failing to unhorse him.
They rode past each other, wheeling wide.
‘He’s fast’, Jon thought. ‘Faster than Robb ever was.’
The crowd roared, pleased.
They took fresh lances. Jon felt sweat trickle beneath his helm despite the breeze off the Blackwater.
The second charge came harder.
Loras leaned low in the saddle, perfect form, every inch the court-trained knight. Jon matched him instinctively, grit and muscle and hours in the yard guiding him more than any fine instruction.
The lances struck nearly together.
This time Jon’s aim held true. His lance caught Loras high on the shield, driving him back—but Loras’s struck Jon square in the chest. Pain exploded through him, breath tearing from his lungs as he rocked in the saddle.
For a heartbeat, he thought he would fall. Somehow, he did not.
Loras swayed, fought for balance—then stayed mounted as well.
The noise from the stands surged louder now, excitement sharpening into anticipation. Even the smallfolk could see this was no easy tilt.
They rode apart again.
Jon’s arm ached. His ribs still carried the echo of yesterday’s bruises. He tasted blood where he’d bitten his tongue.
Across the way, Loras lifted his visor briefly, smiling—bright, exhilarated, alive.
“Well ridden,” he called.
Jon inclined his head, answering in kind.
The horn sounded for the third time. They charged.
This time, Jon did not try to match Loras’s elegance. He leaned into the saddle as Benjen once taught him, trusting weight and timing over grace. At the last instant, he adjusted his aim—not higher, but ‘lower’, where balance mattered most.
The impact was thunder.
Jon’s lance struck true, driving into Loras’s shield and shoulder together. Loras’s lance grazed Jon’s helm, spinning his head sideways in a burst of light—
—but Loras was already falling.
The Knight of Flowers hit the ground hard, rolling once before coming to rest in the dust.
For a breathless moment, there was silence.
Then the stands erupted.
Not polite applause this time, nor courtly cheers—but honest noise, rough and loud and astonished. Jon heard his name shouted, some voices mangling it, others shouting “Snow! Snow!” with wonder rather than scorn. He reined in his horse, chest heaving, scarcely believing it himself.
Loras was already on his feet, laughing as squires rushed to him. He removed his helm and raised a hand to the crowd, then turned and bowed deeply to Jon.
“Well struck,” he said, breathless but smiling. “You earned it.”
Jon returned the salute, heart pounding.
As he rode from the lists, he dared a glance toward the royal stand.
King Robert was on his feet, roaring approval. Barristan Selmy watched him with open interest. Even the nobles leaned forward now, eyes sharp with reassessment.
And beside the king—
Cersei.
Her face was carefully composed, but her eyes were on him, bright and intent, something like pride flickering there before it vanished behind courtly calm.
Jon felt a strange warmth rise in his chest—not triumph, not vanity, but the heavy knowledge that something had shifted.
He was no longer merely ‘the bastard who rode well.’
He was dangerous now.
And somewhere in his gut, beneath the cheers and the dust and the ringing in his ears, Jon felt the weight of what was coming next.
Jaime Lannister waited.
After a few more jousts, which saw the Mountain and the Hound proceed into their semi-final bout – which promised to be nothing less than carnage, Jon’s own semi-final came head on.
Jon mounted in silence when his name was called.
Then he heard the other name.
“Ser Jaime Lannister!”
A hush rippled through the crowd like a held breath.
Jon looked across the lists.
Jaime Lannister sat his horse easily, golden armour gleaming in the sun, helm tucked beneath his arm. He smiled as he slid it into place—but there was nothing friendly in it. His green eyes were hard, sharp with something Jon did not like at all.
‘He means to hurt me’, Jon realized. Not to win. To hurt.
His hands tightened on the reins as Jory finished adjusting his armour. “Steady, Jon,” Jory murmured. “Ride clean. He’s fast, but you’re not helpless.”
Jon nodded, though his heart thundered.
Trumpets sounded. The gates opened.
The crowd fell into an expectant hush as the two riders took their places at opposite ends of the lists.
Jon lowered his visor.
‘For Winterfell’, he told himself. ‘For honour.’ For reasons he no longer fully believed in.
The trumpet blared and they charged.
Jaime came on like a storm—faster than anyone Jon had yet faced, his lance steady as a spear of sunlight. Jon met him head-on, bracing, centring himself—
The impact cracked through him, a bone-rattling crash as lance struck shield. Jon felt himself jolt hard in the saddle but held fast. Jaime reeled as well, his lance shattering into splinters.
The crowd roared.
They reined about, both still mounted.
Jon’s breath came hard and fast. ‘I can do this’, he thought, heart hammering with fierce hope.
Fresh lances were handed up. They turned again.
Jon urged his horse forward, leaning low, lance levelled true—
And then he saw it. Jaime’s lance dipped. Too low.
The impact came not to Jon’s shield, but to the horse beneath him.
The world exploded.
Jon felt weightless for a heartbeat, then the ground rushed up and slammed the breath from his lungs. Pain flared hot along his side and shoulder as he rolled through dust and shattered wood.
Shouts erupted—shock, fury, disbelief.
Jon lay gasping, staring up at the sky through his visor, the sound of hooves and chaos ringing in his ears. His horse on the ground next to him, writhing and whinnying in pain.
Jaime reined in slowly, dismounting with deliberate care. He removed his helm and swept an exaggerated bow toward the royal stand.
“Your great champion, Your Grace,” he called loudly.
The crowd murmured—some thinking the words meant for Robert—
But Jon saw where Jaime’s eyes lingered. On Cersei.
For half a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that look.
Then Robert Baratheon’s roar shattered the air.
“JAIME LANNISTER!”
Jon was dimly aware of guards surging forward, of Robert rising in fury, of voices shouting accusations.
“He struck the horse!”
“Dishonourable!”
“Disqualified!”
Jaime laughed as he was seized, not resisting, his eyes never leaving the stands.
Robert’s face was purple with rage. “Take him away! I’ll have words with him that will ring in his ears till the day he dies!”
The Kingslayer was dragged off, still smiling.
Hands reached for Jon—steadying him, lifting him carefully. Pain throbbed through his ribs and shoulder, but nothing felt broken. He drew a shaky breath, grateful for that at least.
As he was carried from the lists, Jon caught one last glimpse of the royal stand.
Robert was shouting orders. Cersei sat very still, lips pursed.
And Ned Stark—
Ned was on his feet now, staring down at Jon with an expression Jon could not read at all.
Fear. Or something far worse.
As the noise faded and the world narrowed to pain and dust, Jon’s thoughts returned unbidden to the words whispered the night before.
‘Unleash the dragon.’
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ned Stark did not shout when Jaime Lannister struck Jon’s horse. He did not rise in anger, nor cry out in protest as others did.
He simply watched.
Watched the way Jaime’s lance dipped—not wild, not clumsy, but deliberate. Watched the way Jon flew from the saddle. Watched the Kingslayer rise, remove his helm, and bow with mocking grace.
And most of all, Ned watched where Jaime looked.
Not to Robert. To Cersei.
The look was naked in its fury. Raw. Possessive. The look of a man wronged.
‘A jealous man’, Ned realized, cold creeping up his spine.
He thought back to Winterfell—Jaime’s drinking, his brittle smiles, the way he hovered near the queen like a shadow that could not detach itself. He thought of the whispers Varys had brought, the unease that had lodged itself in his chest like a splinter.
And then his thoughts turned—as they had again and again—to the book.
‘The seed is strong.’
Baratheon black, generation upon generation. Strong sons. Stubborn sons. True sons.
Yet Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. All golden-haired. All green-eyed.
‘Not Robert’s,’ Ned thought, the truth finally settling with dreadful weight.
They were Lannisters. Born of incest. Born of Jaime and Cersei.
The realization struck him like a mailed fist, sickening in its blow.
And then—another truth followed, just as damning.
‘If Jaime fathered the queen’s children… and if the queen now beds Jon…’
Ned closed his eyes briefly.
That explained Jaime’s look. His recklessness. His rage.
The Kingslayer had not struck Jon for sport. He had struck him for Cersei.
Ned wanted to deny it. Gods knew he did. Jon—his nephew, his promise to Lyanna—entangled in such filth? Such danger?
Yet deep down, he knew.
‘Two damnable truths’, Ned thought bleakly. ‘And both lead to blood.’
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pain came to Jon in waves, dull and spreading, like heat beneath the skin. He lay on a pallet inside the recovery tent, the canvas above him stirring with every breeze that carried the roar of the crowd. The noise felt distant now, as though the tourney still belonged to another world.
The flap burst open.
Arya was first through, eyes blazing. “He cheated,” she declared at once, fists clenched. “He should have taken Jaime’s head off with the lance. Clean off.”
“Sansa,” Jon said weakly, turning his head.
Sansa followed more carefully, skirts gathered, her face pale but composed. “Arya,” she scolded, though her voice trembled. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“He tried to kill him,” Arya shot back. “If Jon had done the same, everyone would be calling him a hero.”
Jon managed a faint smile. “I’m still alive,” he said. “That counts for something.”
Bran said nothing.
He stood near the foot of the pallet, hands folded before him, his eyes fixed on Jon with an intensity that made Jon’s chest tighten. There was no fear there—only understanding. Too much of it.
The healer finished pressing at Jon’s ribs and straightened. “Bruised, not broken. You’ll ache for days, but there’s no lasting harm. No cracked bones. You’re fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” Arya scoffed. “He was hit by a Kingsguard.”
The healer sniffed. “Then doubly fortunate.”
Jory Cassel stepped forward as the healer moved away. “By the king’s word,” he said, voice steady but grave, “Jaime Lannister is disqualified. Striking a horse is forbidden. You won the tilt, Jon.”
Jon blinked. “Won?”
“Aye,” Jory said. “And you may continue in the tourney—if you wish.”
Silence fell.
Jon stared at the canvas ceiling, doubt settling heavy in his chest. His arm throbbed. His ribs burned. And somewhere beyond the tent, Gregor Clegane still rode.
“I don’t know if I should,” Jon admitted quietly.
Arya rounded on him. “You have to. You can’t let him scare you off.”
Sansa surprised him then. She stepped closer, her eyes shining—not with courtly polish, but with something rawer. “The crowd is with you,” she said. “They were cheering your name. They want you to win.”
Bran finally spoke. “They’re calling you the White Wolf.”
Jon’s breath caught.
“The White Wolf?” he repeated. 'Like Ghost.'
Bran nodded. “I heard them.”
Jon liked the sound of it more than he expected. He said nothing, but the name settled into him, quiet and fierce.
Jory cleared his throat. “If you advance,” he said, “your next opponent will be either the Hound… or the Mountain.”
A knot twisted hard in Jon’s gut.
Arya’s face lit up. “Oh, I have to see that.” She turned on her heel at once. “Come on, Sansa—it’ll be a bloodbath.”
“I will not—” Sansa began, but Arya was already gone.
Jon lay back as the tent emptied, listening as the roar of the crowd swelled again. The ground seemed to tremble beneath him as the Hound and the Mountain took the field. Steel rang. The shouting rose to something feral, thrilled and horrified all at once.
Then came a great commotion—screams, gasps, a sound like thunder striking flesh.
Jory returned not long after, his face ashen.
Jon pushed himself up slightly. “Who won?”
Jory hesitated. “The Mountain,” he said at last. “Barely. The two of them came to blows after the tilt. It took half the Kingsguard to pull them apart.”
Jon closed his eyes.
‘The Mountain.’
Footsteps sounded at the tent flap again. This time, Ser Loras Tyrell entered, still flushed from the lists, his expression bright and earnest.
“Well ridden,” Loras said, smiling. “I hear you’ll need a new horse.”
Jon frowned. “Mine—”
“Is likely ruined,” Loras said lightly. “Take my mare. She’s strong, well-bred, and steady under pressure. She’ll serve you better than any you’ll find on short notice.”
Jon hesitated. “Why?”
Loras shrugged. “Because you earned it. And because I want to see the Mountain fall.”
Jon laughed softly despite himself. “Then I thank you.”
Loras nodded, his pretty face smiling at Jon, before he retreated through the flaps.
Jon laid back, his thoughts a mixture of apprehension and appreciation for the unexpected boon he had been given.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later when he felt recovered enough, Jon left the small tent to inspect the Knight of Flower’s favour. Loras’s mare was nothing like the horses Jon had ridden before.
She was taller through the shoulder than his old mount, her coat a gleaming white that almost shined silvery. Her eyes dark and steady. When Jon swung up into the saddle, she did not flinch or toss her head. She merely snorted once, as if acknowledging the weight of both rider and expectation.
“She won’t break,” Loras had said. “Not from noise. Not from fear.”
Jon hoped that was true—for both of them. Jon couldn't help but notice a mischevious grin on Loras' face.
'Is he setting me up out of revenge for beating him?' Jon couldn't help but wonder in a panic.
Across the lists, Gregor Clegane waited.
Even from a distance, the Mountain looked unreal, as if some cruel god had shaped a man from iron and sinew and forgotten to give him mercy. He dwarfed his horse, a massive black beast that stamped and foamed beneath him. His armour was dark and heavy, without flourish, built for slaughter rather than show. The helm he wore was plain, visor slotted like a skull’s grin.
Jon’s mouth was dry.
He had heard the stories. Everyone had.
Men flayed alive for sport. A girl raped and murdered in front of her family. Villages burned because the Mountain had been bored. Some said he felt no pain. Others said he enjoyed it too much.
‘He is not human,’ Jon thought. ‘He is something else.’
The horns blew.
The crowd roared. Not just cheering—chanting.
“WHITE WOLF!
WHITE WOLF!
WHITE WOLF!”
The sound hit Jon like a physical force. Thousands of voices rising together, washing over him, lifting him even as his hands tightened on the reins. For a moment, the fear receded, replaced by something fierce and wild.
‘They believe in me.’
He lowered his visor. The horn sounded again. They charged.
The Mountain came on like an avalanche, his lance held steady, his horse pounding the earth as if it might split the lists apart. Jon felt the mare surge beneath him, powerful and sure, her stride smooth despite the thunder around them. The world narrowed. The pounding of hooves. The wind tearing at his cloak. The weight of the lance in his hands.
Gregor Clegane grew larger with every heartbeat, his presence blotting out the stands, the sky, everything else.
‘Don’t think’, Jon told himself. ‘Just ride.’
Then, just before impact, the Mountain’s horse screamed.
The great black beast reared suddenly, panicked—perhaps by the roar of the crowd, perhaps by some unseen flaw in the ground. Its front legs clawed the air, throwing Gregor’s aim wide.
Jon did not hesitate. He rose in the saddle and struck.
The lance caught the Mountain square in the chest, just beneath the collar of his armor.
Gregor Clegane flew.
The Mountain crashed to the earth with a sound like a falling tower, his helm striking the ground hard enough to crack. His body lay still.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the lists exploded.
“THE WHITE WOLF!”
“THE WHITE WOLF!”
Jon sat frozen in the saddle, staring. The Mountain did not rise.
Men ran onto the field—four, then six—straining together to drag the enormous body away. Gregor’s helm was removed, his face slack and unmoving, blood trickling from his temple. Unconscious.
Alive—but beaten.
Jon exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He lifted his visor.
The noise was deafening now. People were on their feet, shouting his name, pounding the rails. Somewhere, someone was crying. Somewhere else, someone laughed.
He saw Arya jumping with joy, and Sansa beaming like she had been made the princess of the world. Even Bran was giggling unrestrained.
Jon turned his horse toward the royal stand.
Robert was on his feet, roaring approval, ale sloshing from his cup. Joffrey stared, pale and silent. Cersei looked at him with something like fierce pride—possessive, dangerous. And then—
Ned Stark.
His father did not rise. He did not smile.
He looked at Jon as though he were seeing him for the first time… and fearing what he saw.
The cheers washed over Jon, but the victory tasted suddenly bitter.
‘The White Wolf’, was all he could hear.
And yet, beneath the roar, Jon felt the weight of something breaking—quietly, irrevocably—between himself and the man whose approval he had always wanted most.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The royal pavilion had been dressed for triumph.
Banners of crowned stag and direwolf hung side by side, stirring lazily in the afternoon heat. Gold cups passed freely, and the air was thick with the smell of wine, sweat, and victory. Courtiers crowded close, eager to be seen near greatness while it still burned bright.
Jon stood before the king.
He had been cleaned and rearmed, his bruises hidden beneath fresh cloth, but Ned could still see the stiffness in his shoulders, the careful way he shifted his weight. He stood straight nonetheless, head high, eyes forward.
Too forward, perhaps.
Robert boomed with laughter, one heavy hand clapped on Jon’s shoulder. “You rode like a damned hero,” the king declared. “I knew you would do well, but to topple the damn Mountain" He gave a booming laugh that practicaly shook the flaps of the tent. "A wolf indeed—and white as snow besides!”
The name rippled through the pavilion again.
The White Wolf.
Jon inclined his head, polite, composed. Ned watched him closely now—not the knight, not the champion, but the boy. The boy who had learned too quickly how to stand before kings.
Cersei sat at Robert’s side, radiant in crimson and gold. When Jon turned toward her, their eyes met for half a heartbeat too long.
Then she extended her hand. Jon hesitated—just a breath—before bending to kiss it.
It was flawless. Proper. Respectful.
And yet Ned’s stomach tightened.
Too bold, he thought. Or too familiar.
Robert noticed nothing. He was already lifting his cup. “A toast!” he cried. “To Jon Snow—the White Wolf!”
Cups rose. Cheers followed.
Robert drained his wine and laughed again. “Gods, Ned, I’m jealous. That’s your son, and he’s done you proud.”
Ned smiled, because he must. The lie tasted like ash.
He glanced toward Joffrey. The boy’s face was stiff with fury, his hands clenched at his sides, eyes burning holes into Jon’s back.
Robert waved an idle hand. “Bring the Kingslayer in.”
The cheer died instantly.
The pavilion seemed to draw inward on itself as Jaime Lannister was ushered inside. He wore no armor now, only a dark doublet, his golden hair loose about his shoulders. He walked easily, almost lazily, as though this were an inconvenience rather than a reckoning.
Robert did not rise.
“Apologise,” the king said flatly.
Jaime arched a brow. “For what?”
A ripple of unease passed through the assembled lords.
Robert surged to his feet. “Do not take me for a fool, Lannister. You struck his horse. You mocked him. You mocked my Hand.”
“A bastard shouldn’t be in the lists,” Jaime replied lightly. “Bad omens have no place in a king’s tourney. I was sparing you the embarrassment.”
Robert’s face darkened. “You’ve been a bad omen since Winterfell. Drinking. Sneering. Acting the jealous fool.”
Ned’s eyes flicked between them.
Jaime did not look at Robert. He looked at Cersei. And then—briefly—at Jon.
The glances passed between the three like drawn blades, sharp and silent, and Ned felt suddenly certain he was watching a battle already lost, while the king stood blind in the midst of it.
Jaime shrugged. “I serve my Grace as I always have.”
“Then apologise,” Robert thundered.
Jaime turned to Jon. Said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Robert’s chest heaved as he stared at Jaime Lannister, his great hands trembling—not with fear, but with the effort of restraint.
“Apologise,” he said again, more quietly now. The pavilion had fallen so still that Ned could hear the faint creak of leather, the soft clink of mail as men shifted uneasily. “Do it now, and this ends.”
Jaime met the king’s gaze at last.
Then he looked past him, at Jon.
The corner of his mouth twitched, as if in amusement—or pity.
“No,” Jaime said.
It was a small word, spoken without heat. It landed like a hammer.
Robert’s face went slack for a heartbeat, as though he had not truly believed this moment would come. Then the fury returned, red and terrible.
“Very well,” he said. “You leave me no choice.”
He turned slowly, deliberately, letting every lord and lady present hear what followed.
“Ser Jaime Lannister, you have broken the sacred laws of the tourney. You have brought shame upon the Kingsguard. Worse—you have shown contempt for your king.”
Cersei stepped forward, her voice sharp. “Robert—”
“Be silent,” he roared, not even looking at her. The word cracked like a whip, and she stopped short, pale with rage.
Robert went on. “By my word as king, I strip you of your white cloak. From this day forth, you are no longer of the Kingsguard.”
A murmur swept the pavilion—shock, disbelief, fear. Ned saw men glance at one another, calculating what this meant. Saw others stare at Jaime as though seeing him truly for the first time.
Varys inclined his head slightly. “Your Grace,” he said carefully, “such a decree has not been made in living memory. Lord Tywin—”
“Can choke on it,” Robert snapped.
Jaime laughed again, loud and unrestrained. “I always hated the colour,” he said. “White shows the blood too easily.”
Cersei turned on Robert then, her composure finally cracking. “You will tear the realm apart with this decision!” Ned noticed that her ire never once pointed to Jon.
Robert rounded on her. “Damn it with the realm, I will not stand having this dishonourable fool in my ranks any longer.”
Jaime laughed coldly. “Honour is a story men tell themselves so they can sleep at night. Perhaps you should ask to your precious Lord Hand’s bastard about honour means to him. He’s not what you think he is.”
Ned’s heart pounded.
Robert looked like he was about to surge forward and strangle Jaime then and there. “That bastard has shown more honour in one day than you have in your entire life, Kingslayer.”
Jon stood rigid, eyes fixed ahead, his face pale beneath the praise. He looked like a man carved from ice—beautiful, unyielding, and cracking from within. Jaime in contrast look like a once beautiful ice sculpture that had begun to melt. His smirk becoming bitter.
“Ah yes Kingslayer. The one act that will forever haunt me. I wonder, if any of the thousands that did not perish in Aery’s wildfire that night bless my name, or do they curse it like everyone else? My greatest stain, and your greatest triumph.”
Robert’s face became placid. Then he lifted a hand, palm outward, and the tent awaited his judgement like an incoming t. “Remove him. Get him out of my sight. If it weren’t for your father I’d have your head on a spike before dawn.”
Kingsguard moved in at once. Jaime did not resist. As they took his arms, he looked almost relieved—as though a burden had been lifted from him at last.
“Leave King’s Landing before the morn,” Robert added. “If I see you again without my leave, I will have your head—father or no father.”
Jaime was led away, still smiling.
Cersei stared after him, breathing hard. Then she turned back to Robert, her eyes cold and glittering. “You will regret this.”
She did not wait for an answer.
Her skirts whispered as she followed Jaime out, the sound sharp as a drawn blade.
Robert slumped back onto his chair, suddenly older, the fire burning low behind his eyes. “Gods,” he muttered. “I’m done with Lannisters.”
The pavilion remained silent.
Ned stood frozen, his thoughts racing faster than his heart. Two truths weighed on him now—each damning, each impossible to speak.
‘This can only end in blood’, he thought.
And as he looked at Jon—still standing alone amid the wreckage of his victory—Ned Stark knew that the storm he feared had already broken.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The stables were quiet at this hour, the city beyond them already settling into uneasy sleep. Torches guttered along the stone walls, their light throwing long, broken shadows across the packed earth. Horses stamped and snorted softly, sensing departure.
Jaime was tightening the girth on his saddle when Cersei arrived.
He did not turn at once. She watched him for a moment—the familiar line of his shoulders, the careless grace even now, even stripped of white cloak and honor. When he finally looked over his shoulder, his mouth curved into a smirk that cut deeper than any blade.
“So,” he said. “Are you happy?”
Cersei drew herself up. “This was not my wish.”
Jaime laughed under his breath. “Wasn’t it?” He finished buckling the strap and faced her fully. “You have your precious bastard to warm your bed now. Clearly, you don’t need me.”
The words struck harder than she expected.
“You know that’s not true,” she said sharply. “I will speak to Robert. I can make him reconsider.”
Jaime shook his head. “Too late. He made his show. Kings don’t like being made fools—especially by their wives.” His eyes flicked, briefly, to her belly. “Besides, Father will be pleased. His wayward son returned at last. I expect he already has a dozen marriage contracts waiting.”
Her fingers curled into her palms. “And our children?” she demanded. “Who protects them now?”
Jaime’s expression darkened. “I don’t know.”
For a moment, the smirk was gone, and something raw showed through.
Then his face hardened.
“But I do know this,” he said quietly. “When war comes—and it will—I will ride for our house. And when Stark and Lannister finally draw blood, I will kill Robert. I will kill Ned Stark. And I will kill his precious bastard.”
Cersei’s breath caught.
“I’ll bring you his heart,” Jaime went on, voice low and steady. “If that’s what it takes to remind you who I am.”
He mounted his horse in one smooth motion, not looking back.
The gates opened. Hooves struck stone.
Jaime Lannister rode into the night.
Cersei stood alone in the torchlight, the echoes of his words ringing in her ears. Her hand drifted, unthinking, to her belly—warm, alive, dangerous.
All she had left was Jon Snow. Everything hinged on what she suspected he could be. If she was right, it would change everything. If he was not, only ruin awaited.
But as she stood there alone in the dim torchlight, she felt ruin was inevitable either way.