As the last echoes of the crowd's roars faded into an awed hush, Harry remained standing at the center of the blood-stained arena, the Sword of Gryffindor still gleaming in his grip. The scent of iron filled the air, mingling with the dust kicked up by the battle. The Mountain's massive, ruined corpse lay motionless in a pool of its own lifeblood, a grotesque monument to the brutal spectacle that had just unfolded.
The weight of the moment settled on Harry's shoulders, but he bore it without flinching. He had won. Not just survived, but conquered. And now, the game had changed.
The first to reach him was Eddard Stark, his long stride steady and purposeful as he stepped onto the blood-drenched sand. His face, ever the portrait of solemnity, was tinged with something deeper—something like approval. The Warden of the North studied Harry with an intensity that only a father might have for a son he had come to respect.
"You fought well," Ned said at last, his voice low but carrying the weight of a man who did not give praise lightly. His eyes flickered briefly to the corpse behind Harry before returning to meet his gaze. "With honor. With skill." He exhaled, nodding. "The North will remember this day."
Harry gave him a tired, knowing smirk. "Let's hope the Lannisters do, too."
Ned's lips pressed into a thin line, the ghost of a smile touching them, but his eyes were unreadable. There would be consequences—there always were.
Then came Jon Snow, his dark curls damp with sweat, his grey eyes alight with something rare: unfiltered admiration. He stepped forward, clapped a firm hand on Harry's shoulder, and let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head as if he still couldn't believe what he'd seen.
"Bloody hell," Jon muttered, his usual brooding demeanor giving way to something more open, more unguarded. "That was... well, that was something." His grip on Harry's shoulder tightened. "I knew you were strong, but this…" He let out another breath, shaking his head. "Seven Hells, Harry."
Harry, still catching his breath, gave a lopsided grin. "You sound surprised."
Jon scoffed, stepping back. "I knew you could fight. I just didn't think you'd break the bastard first."
Harry snorted, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. "Yeah, well. He was always going to fall. Just needed to figure out how to make it happen."
Jon let out a short laugh, still shaking his head, but his admiration was clear.
Then, before Harry could say another word, a blur of silver and violet surged toward him.
Dany.
Her arms wrapped around his neck with a force that nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. She pressed against him, her grip fierce, as if making sure he was still there—still whole. Her scent, a mix of summer flowers and something uniquely her, filled his senses as she buried her face in his shoulder.
"Mon amour," she murmured, her voice thick with relief, slipping into her native tongue as she often did when her emotions ran high. "I thought—" She cut herself off, pulling back just enough to cup his face between her hands, her violet eyes searching his for something unspoken.
"You were magnifique," she whispered, her accent thickening as she fell into the comforting lilt of her old tongue. "I knew you would win, but—" She bit her lip, then let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. "By the gods, Harry, I thought my heart would stop."
Harry grinned, exhaustion creeping in at the edges, but he still lifted a hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "Didn't mean to scare you, love."
Dany scoffed, her fingers tightening against his jaw. "You always scare me, idiot. But then you turn around and prove why I should never doubt you."
He let out a breath, resting his forehead against hers. "You know I had to win."
She nodded, her voice a whisper. "Of course. But that does not mean I have to like watching you nearly die."
"Nearly being the key word," Harry quipped, his lips quirking up at the corner.
Dany huffed, but the flicker of a smile danced at the edges of her lips. Then she leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss against his mouth, pouring all of her relief, her pride, her love into the moment.
Jon made a face. "Gods, we get it."
Harry, without breaking the kiss, flipped Jon off.
Ned cleared his throat. "You've made your point, lad," he said, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in his otherwise stern tone.
Dany finally pulled back, but not before whispering, "We will talk about this later, mon dragon."
Harry swallowed. That definitely didn't sound like a good thing.
Ned's expression sobered as he looked between them. "This was a victory," he said carefully, his voice lowering. "But we must be ready. The Lannisters will not let this stand."
Jon nodded grimly. "They'll want revenge."
Dany's grip on Harry's hand tightened. "Then let them come." Her voice was steady, unwavering. "They will find that we do not break."
Harry exhaled, glancing between them. "Well," he murmured, his fingers lacing with Dany's. "At least we know this won't be boring."
Jon gave him a flat look. "Harry."
"What?"
"That was never a concern."
The three of them shared a look—one filled with unspoken understanding, with the weight of what was coming. The battle had been won, but the war was far from over.
As the crowd's murmurs began to rise again, as the world around them caught its breath, Harry met Ned Stark's gaze, seeing in it the quiet resolve of a man who had seen too much war, too much bloodshed.
"You fought like a leader today, Harry," Ned said, his voice steady. "Like a king."
Harry shook his head, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. "Not a king," he corrected. "Just a man making sure we don't lose."
Ned studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Aye. And that's why you'll win."
Dany lifted her chin, standing beside him. "Fire and blood."
Jon smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Ice and honor."
Harry rolled his shoulders, exhaling deeply.
"Well then," he murmured, the weight of the moment settling over them all.
"Let's get to work."
—
The dust had barely settled in the arena when King Robert Baratheon rose from his seat, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over the assembled lords and ladies of Westeros. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with the weight of judgment. A hush fell over the gathered nobility as he stepped forward, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword.
"The trial by combat has reached its conclusion," Robert proclaimed, his deep, thunderous voice echoing across the arena. His gaze swept over the assembled throng, lingering on the lifeless corpse of Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. Then, slowly, he turned his piercing stare toward Cersei Lannister.
"Queen Cersei Lannister stands condemned of her transgressions."
The murmurs in the stands swelled into an uneasy hum, a mixture of shock, anticipation, and dread. Cersei, seated beside her father, Tywin, barely reacted at first. Her golden hair gleamed in the afternoon sun, her features carved from marble—cold, imperious, and unreadable. But beneath the facade, her emerald-green eyes flickered with something dangerous, something seething.
Robert wasn't done. His jaw tightened as he continued, his tone carrying the unyielding weight of a king's decree.
"In consequence, she is to be stripped of her title as queen. She shall no longer bear the name Baratheon."
Gasps rippled through the crowd like a wave crashing against the rocks.
Robert pressed on, his voice like steel. "Furthermore, as a testament to her betrayal, her right hand shall be severed—a fitting price for her treachery."
A ripple of shock coursed through the spectators. Even the most battle-hardened lords and knights exchanged uneasy glances. Punishing a noblewoman in such a brutal fashion was unheard of. But then, this was no ordinary woman.
Joffrey Baratheon shot to his feet, his face twisted in a mask of fury, his blonde curls wild from the sudden movement. His voice cracked as he shrieked, his petulant rage spilling into the open.
"No! This cannot be!" He was practically foaming at the mouth, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. "She is the queen! My mother! Such a punishment is unthinkable!"
His shrill, high-pitched protest echoed through the arena. Some in the crowd turned away, embarrassed by his display. Others—those who had long suspected the truth of his parentage—exchanged knowing glances.
Robert, for his part, merely exhaled through his nose, his expression hardening.
"She is no longer queen, Joffrey," he said, his voice carrying none of the boisterous warmth it often held. "She has disgraced the crown. Tarnished my name. The punishment is just."
Joffrey's eyes burned with venom, his lip curling in contempt. "I will not accept this! This entire trial is a farce! A mockery of justice!"
From the arena floor, Harry Peverell observed the outburst with an impassive expression, his grip on the Sword of Gryffindor tightening ever so slightly. His heart still pounded from the battle, but his mind was sharp. He watched the Lannisters carefully, gauging their every reaction.
Ned Stark stepped forward, his movements slow but deliberate, his cloak billowing slightly with each step. His face was a mask of grim resolve, his grey eyes cold as winter frost. He met Joffrey's gaze, unwavering.
"Prince Joffrey," Ned said, his voice firm, yet calm, like the first chill before a blizzard. "The trial by combat is a sacred institution. The gods have rendered their judgment. And justice must follow."
Joffrey's head snapped toward him, his youthful face twisted with pure, undiluted hatred.
"You dare speak to me like that?!" he spat, his voice growing shriller by the second. "I am your future king! You should kneel before me!"
Ned didn't flinch. Didn't so much as blink.
"You are a boy throwing a tantrum," he replied evenly.
Joffrey recoiled as if struck. His mouth opened, but no words came. His face turned red with fury, his breathing shallow and erratic.
Cersei, who had remained silent through the pronouncement, finally stood, moving with the slow, deliberate grace of a lioness deciding whether or not to pounce. She did not meet Robert's gaze at first. Instead, she turned her head ever so slightly to look at her father.
Tywin Lannister remained seated. His golden eyes, sharp and calculating, revealed nothing. He neither protested nor reacted. He was watching, waiting—measuring the weight of the moment like a general weighing the merits of battle.
Only then did Cersei shift her gaze to Robert, her expression unreadable, her voice eerily calm.
"You would do this to me?" she asked, tilting her head, her voice almost bemused. "You would mutilate the mother of your children? A woman who has ruled beside you for years?"
Robert snorted, shaking his head. "Don't speak as if you've ever ruled beside me, Cersei." His lip curled in disgust. "You ruled behind my back. And in my bed, you spread your legs for another man."
The crowd gasped again, but Cersei barely reacted. Only the flicker of rage in her eyes betrayed her.
Her voice dropped to a whisper, but the venom in it was unmistakable. "You truly are a fool, Robert."
Robert's face darkened, his meaty hand clenching into a fist. "You're lucky I let you live, woman."
At that, Cersei's mask of control cracked. Her lips parted, and for the first time, something raw, something truly fearful flickered in her expression. She glanced at Joffrey—who stood trembling, shaking with impotent fury. She turned back to her father, seeking some sign, some indication that he would intervene.
But Tywin merely stared at her, his expression as impassive as ever.
Alone.
She was alone.
The realization settled over her like a suffocating shroud.
Joffrey, still seething, turned in a dramatic swirl of his royal cloak. "You will all rue this day," he spat, his voice shaking with rage. "You will pay for this!"
And with that, he stormed away, his footsteps echoing with the finality of his retreat.
The tension in the air was thick as the gathered nobility slowly absorbed what had transpired. The trial was over. Judgment had been delivered. And Westeros would never be the same.
Robert, still fuming, turned his gaze to the bloodied warrior standing in the center of it all. His expression softened—if only slightly—as he regarded Harry Peverell.
"You have done the realm a great service today, Lord Peverell," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Harry inclined his head. "Let's hope the realm sees it that way, Your Grace."
Robert chuckled darkly. "Oh, they'll see it. Whether they like it or not… that's another matter."
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the arena, the world shifted irrevocably. The echoes of steel and blood would reverberate far beyond these walls.
A storm was coming. And none of them would be spared.
—
The hush that had fallen over the arena remained unbroken, thick with the weight of the day's events. Queen Cersei Lannister stood isolated, her grandeur stripped away by the king's decree. Her golden hair, once a crown in its own right, framed a face frozen between fury and disbelief. The Lioness of Lannister had been declawed before the entire realm.
Beyond her, the crowd murmured in uneasy reverence as a trio strode across the blood-stained ground. At their head walked him—Hadrian Peverell, the man who had bested Gregor Clegane and shattered the illusion of Lannister untouchability. To his left, his wife, Fleur Peverell, moved with a grace that made even the hardened soldiers steal a glance. Her ethereal beauty was matched only by the quiet steel in her blue eyes. At his right, Jon Snow walked with his usual brooding intensity, a silent observer in this game of crowns.
From the stands, a voice cut through the murmurs like silk sliding over steel.
"A fine victory, Lord Peverell. One worthy of song, though I doubt the Lannisters will commission a bard for this one."
Oberyn Martell descended the steps with effortless ease, his loose robes swaying with each measured stride. His lips curled in that ever-present smirk, but his eyes—deep and dark—held something more than amusement. Behind him, Ellaria Sand walked with the slow confidence of a woman who knew her worth, her beauty carrying a hint of danger, like wine laced with poison. The Sand Snakes followed in their wake, three daughters forged in Oberyn's image, their expressions varying from intrigue to open admiration.
Hadrian inclined his head, his dark cloak shifting with the movement. "Prince Oberyn," he greeted, his voice calm but carrying the weight of the battle just won.
Oberyn stopped before him, close enough that the scent of Dornish spices and sun-warmed leather lingered in the air. He looked at Hadrian the way a gambler might size up another at the table—not with suspicion, but curiosity.
"You brought down the Mountain," Oberyn said, his voice almost reverent. "I have waited years for this, and yet, it was not my spear but your sword that delivered justice."
There was no resentment in his tone, only a deep, weary relief.
Hadrian held his gaze. "Justice is justice," he said simply.
Oberyn exhaled, his smile widening. "So it is." He placed a hand over his heart. "For that, you have the eternal gratitude of House Martell. And mine."
Ellaria, standing beside him, nodded with quiet reverence. Her dark eyes flickered toward Dany, noting the way she stood beside her husband, poised and unreadable.
"You must be Fleur Peverell," Ellaria said smoothly, tilting her head.
Dany smiled, though it did not quite reach her eyes. "I am." Her accent, normally carefully hidden, slipped through like honey over stone. "And you are Ellaria Sand—one of the few women in this city who understands the true price of vengeance."
Ellaria's lips curled, not unlike her lover's. "Indeed." She gave Fleur a knowing look, a silent acknowledgment between two women who had lived among men who fought battles with steel and fire.
Jon Snow, who had been silent thus far, shifted slightly. His gaze flicked between the Dornishmen and Harry, his instincts wary. "The Mountain deserved worse," he muttered. "But he's dead. That's what matters."
Obara Sand, the eldest of the Sand Snakes, snorted, arms crossed over her chest. "I would have liked to see more blood," she admitted.
Nymeria Sand, standing beside her, smirked. "You would, sister." She turned her attention to Hadrian, eyes sharp with appraisal. "But you did what few could. I imagine your legend will grow even larger after today."
Tyene Sand, the youngest and deceptively sweet-looking, tilted her head as she studied Fleur. "And you," she said, her voice like silk, "are very interesting. I wonder how many in this city underestimate you."
Dany's purple eyes (hidden under a glamour) gleamed with amusement. "More than they should. But that is their mistake."
Oberyn laughed, a rich, warm sound. "I do love a woman who knows her worth." He turned back to Hadrian, his expression shifting to something more earnest. "There is someone who would have wanted to thank you herself—my daughter, Rhea. She does not yet know of today's events, but when she does…" His voice trailed off for a moment before he nodded. "She will be overjoyed."
Ellaria placed a hand on his arm. "She has waited for this day as much as any of us."
Harry nodded. "Then I look forward to meeting her."
Oberyn's smile returned, lighter this time. "Then perhaps you and your lady wife would join us for dinner tomorrow evening. We are staying at a modest establishment on the Street of Silk—hardly the Red Keep, but I assure you, the wine flows sweeter there."
Dany glanced at Harry, then smiled, her expression knowing. "We would be honored."
Oberyn grinned, his dark eyes gleaming. "Then it is settled."
With a final nod, the Martells turned and departed, their presence like the lingering warmth of a setting sun. The Sand Snakes followed, their sharp gazes lingering on Hadrian and Fleur before they vanished into the crowd.
Jon exhaled sharply once they were gone. "They like you," he muttered.
Dany smirked. "I like them too."
Harry chuckled, adjusting the clasp of his cloak. "Let's just hope that's a good thing."
As they turned and walked away from the arena, the weight of the day settled upon them. Justice had been served, but the ripples of this victory would stretch far beyond King's Landing. Alliances had shifted, enemies had been made, and the game of thrones played on.
And yet, for the first time in years, the name Elia Martell had been spoken not in mourning, but in vindication.
For Oberyn Martell, for his children, for the Dornish who had waited too long for justice—today, the scales had finally begun to balance.
—
The arena was nearly empty now, save for the murmuring remnants of the crowd dispersing into the labyrinthine streets of King's Landing. The echoes of steel against flesh, the roar of a bloodthirsty audience, and the thunderous finality of Hadrian Peverell's victory over Ser Gregor Clegane still lingered in the air, like the dying embers of a once-roaring inferno.
Amidst the thinning masses, a solitary figure moved with a deliberate, measured pace. Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger to most—navigated the departing crowd like a ghost, his sharp eyes betraying none of the turmoil brewing beneath his composed exterior. His every movement was precise, as though each step was part of an intricate, invisible dance only he could perceive.
But inside? Inside, Petyr Baelish was seething.
His fingers flexed at his sides before he clasped them neatly behind his back, schooling his expression into that familiar, unreadable smirk. His calm, collected veneer never wavered, but to those who truly knew how to look—who knew how to see—there was a subtle tightness in his jaw, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
This had been an unexpected disaster. A miscalculation.
And he loathed miscalculations.
He had wagered heavily on the Mountain's victory. Not merely in coin, though the loss of such a substantial sum gnawed at him like a rat in a grain store. No, the true loss was power—leverage. The fear the Mountain inspired had been useful. A blunt instrument, yes, but a reliable one. A beast meant to be loosed when chaos was needed, when the scent of blood could drive men to madness.
And now?
Now the Mountain was gone. Slain by Hadrian Peverell before the eyes of half the city.
His gaze flicked back toward the victor's circle, where the so-called Lord Peverell stood with his insufferably noble bearing, accepting accolades from Oberyn Martell and his assembled kin. Beside him, his wife—Dany, though she called herself Fleur—held herself with the kind of serene confidence that suggested she was born for such moments. And then there was Jon Snow, that brooding wolf pup, standing close as though he belonged at their side.
Baelish's lips pressed into a thin line before curving into something that almost resembled amusement.
"So that is how the winds are shifting," he murmured under his breath.
His voice was smooth, his words barely above a whisper. But there was no one near enough to hear him, save for his trusted agents—shadowy figures who trailed him like wraiths, waiting for his command.
He resumed walking, descending the stone steps of the arena with a slow, deliberate stride. His mind raced, turning over the implications of what had just unfolded.
Hadrian Peverell had shifted the balance of power.
The Martells were emboldened.
Tywin Lannister would be furious.
And Cersei?
A slow, knowing smile curled at the edges of his lips. Cersei will be desperate.
That, at least, was a weakness he could exploit.
"Lord Baelish."
A voice called out to him from the side, and he turned, schooling his features into that ever-pleasant, ever-knowing smirk. A minor noble—one of the many who hovered on the fringes of power, hoping to attach themselves to his influence—hurried to catch up with him. The man's face was flushed, his eagerness barely concealed beneath a thin layer of practiced decorum.
"That was quite the spectacle, wasn't it?" the noble continued, gesturing back toward the arena. "I must admit, I did not expect Ser Gregor to fall."
Baelish exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head ever so slightly. "A lesson, my friend," he said in that familiar, soft lilt of his. "Even the fiercest beasts can be brought low… when the right hand wields the blade."
The noble laughed uneasily. "Quite right. And Lord Peverell certainly wielded it well."
"Oh, undoubtedly," Baelish agreed, his smirk widening. "The question, of course, is whether he knows who has been sharpening his blade all this time."
The noble frowned slightly, as though puzzling out the meaning behind the words. Baelish merely chuckled again, a quiet, breathy sound, before laying a light hand on the man's shoulder.
"Forgive me," he murmured. "Just a thought."
With that, he stepped away, his mind already leaping ahead to the next move.
Hadrian Peverell.
He had emerged as a new complication. He seemed too noble, too incorruptible. But every man had his weaknesses. His wife. His friends. His pride.
And if Baelish could not control him, then he would simply have to find a way to undo him.
After all, a storm may shift the course of a river…
…but the river always carves its way forward, regardless.
And Petyr Baelish?
He had always known how to navigate a flood.
—
The air was still thick with the remnants of the crowd's fervor, though the arena itself had fallen into an eerie silence. Where once there had been the thunderous roar of spectators, the clash of steel, and the bellowing of warriors, now there remained only whispers and footsteps fading into the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep.
Varys, Master of Whisperers, moved through the dimly lit passageways with his usual unhurried grace, his silken robes whispering against the cold stone floors. His face, as ever, was an impenetrable mask of serene detachment, but behind his calm, unassuming exterior, his mind was aflame with curiosity.
Hadrian Peverell.
He had anticipated a spectacle, but what he had witnessed today was something altogether more… illuminating.
Ser Gregor Clegane had not merely fallen—he had been annihilated. Hadrian had not fought like a man struggling for survival but like one merely demonstrating his power. The Mountain had been reduced to a gruesome husk, an instrument of fear shattered before the eyes of Westeros. It was a message, though whether intended or not, it was clear as day.
A shift in power had begun.
And Varys had spent a lifetime recognizing the first ripples of a coming storm.
As he stepped into the cooler evening air, the last traces of daylight painting the sky in dusky hues, he was joined by one of his little birds—a young girl, no older than ten, dressed in the unassuming rags of a common urchin. She fell into step beside him, silent as a shadow, awaiting his word.
"Tell me, my dear," Varys began, his voice as soft as a lullaby, "what do the streets say of today's events?"
The girl hesitated only a moment before responding. "They cheer for Lord Peverell, my lord. They call him 'The Dragon Reborn'… 'The Storm That Killed The Mountain'… some even whisper 'The Shadow of Valyria.'"
Varys hummed thoughtfully, his expression betraying neither amusement nor concern. "My, my. How quickly a tale grows in the telling."
The girl continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Some say he is kin to the Targaryens… that he wields magic, old magic… that he is not like other men."
Varys stopped walking for the briefest of moments, the flicker of a smile playing at his lips. Not like other men… How very intriguing.
He resumed his pace, the girl trailing beside him. "And what of his wife?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual.
The child hesitated again, as if weighing whether to repeat the whispers she had heard. "She is… strange," she said finally. "The common folk think her beautiful, but some say they feel uneasy when they look at her. Like she is… more than she appears."
Varys sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "So much fear of the unknown. You see how easily mystery becomes myth, and myth becomes legend."
The girl nodded solemnly.
Varys stopped at the edge of the palace courtyard, his gaze drifting toward the Red Keep, where the real game of thrones was played in silence, in shadows, and in secrets yet to be uncovered. He turned to the girl, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Watch them closely," he murmured. "Listen. Learn. And, when you have something worth whispering…" He leaned in slightly, his lips barely moving as he spoke, "bring it to me."
The girl nodded and disappeared into the night, vanishing as quickly as she had appeared.
Varys remained still for a moment longer, allowing the evening breeze to brush against his skin. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked toward the horizon. The Mountain was dead, but the ramifications of his defeat had only just begun to unfold.
Hadrian Peverell was no mere warrior. He was something else entirely.
And Varys intended to find out exactly what that something was.
With the ghost of a smile, the Master of Whisperers melted into the darkness, his mind already weaving the next strands of his ever-expanding web.
—
A Prince's Wrath
The doors to Joffrey Baratheon's chambers slammed shut with such force that the echoes lingered in the stone corridors long after. The heavy oak shuddered in its iron frame, as if recoiling from the fury of the boy-prince who had thrown them closed. Inside, amidst the opulence of Lannister gold and crimson silks, stood Joffrey, his chest heaving, his face a mask of barely-contained rage.
"Those insolent curs!" he spat, his voice shrill with fury. His fingers twitched, longing for his crossbow, longing to put a quarrel through something—someone.
The day had been a disaster. A nightmare. His mother, the great Queen Cersei, humiliated. Stripped of her title like some common peasant, as if she were no more important than a chambermaid caught stealing wine. And now… now they threatened to maim her. His golden lioness.
His lip curled, a pitiful whimper escaping him before he bared his teeth, snarling in frustration. His hands trembled with impotent fury as he turned on the nearest object of beauty—the gilded chair beside the hearth. With a scream of rage, he kicked it, sending it careening across the chamber, where it crashed against a polished table and reduced it to kindling.
"HOW DARE THEY!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with the sheer force of his ire. He turned, wild-eyed, as if the walls themselves mocked him. "I am the prince! They should fear me!"
But they didn't. Not Hadrian Peverell. Not that bitch Fleur. Not that damned Snake of Dorne and his insufferable daughters. They had all defied him, made a fool of him before the court. And now… now he had lost his prize.
Fleur Peverell had been his fantasy, a whispered promise of conquest and cruelty. He had envisioned himself the hero in her tragedy, the only solace for a widow left vulnerable by her husband's inevitable, deserved demise. He had seen her as she should have been—alone, broken, and begging for his mercy. For his attention. For him.
But that bastard Hadrian had refused to die. Worse than that—he had won.
Joffrey's nails dug into his palms, drawing tiny crescent moons of blood.
"She was supposed to be mine," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I deserve her."
He spun, eyes darting around the chamber, searching for something else to break. His gaze landed on a silver goblet resting innocently on his bedside table, its polished surface reflecting the dim candlelight. It was in his hands before he had even registered moving, and with a strangled cry, he hurled it at the nearest wall.
The goblet struck the stone with a sharp, ringing crack! before crumpling and falling to the floor in a twisted, ruined heap. Joffrey panted, his breath ragged, his body trembling with unspent rage.
He needed blood. He needed someone to hurt.
His thoughts raced, grasping at any way to make himself feel powerful again. His mother would be furious, ashamed of her disgrace. But she would expect him to act, to avenge her. He was Joffrey Baratheon, the true king, and kings did not suffer indignities without retribution.
A cruel smile curled at his lips.
"They'll pay for this," he murmured, his voice laced with venom. "Every one of them."
Hadrian. Fleur. Oberyn. The Martells. The Peverells.
He would watch them suffer. He would see their pride stripped away, their dignity reduced to ash. He would take from them what they had stolen from him.
Joffrey stalked toward his bed, but instead of collapsing onto the silken sheets, he reached for the heavy crossbow resting on the stand beside it. He ran his fingers over the polished wood, his breathing steadying as the familiar weight settled in his hands.
He had learned something valuable today.
Power was not given. It was taken.
And he would take it. One way or another.
As the last remnants of sunlight faded from the sky, the boy-prince sat in the shadows of his ruined chamber, his fingers tracing the delicate carvings on his weapon, his mind already weaving the threads of his revenge.
---
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