Jaime Lannister stood in the throne room of the Red Keep, gazing down at the very dead, very blood-covered body of Aerys Targaryen.
"Well," he muttered, flicking the excess blood from his sword, "that's going to be awkward to explain at parties."
The Mad King's sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, mouth still frozen in what Jaime generously assumed was his "maniacal laughter" expression. That or Aerys had just realized, too late, that talking about blowing up the entire city in front of his bodyguard-slash-murderer was a bold choice.
Jaime sighed and wiped his forehead, smearing a streak of royal blood across his temple. Great. Just great. He could already hear the ballads. Jaime Lannister, Oathbreaker, Kingslayer, Betrayer of Trust, Maker of Bad Life Decisions. (That last one was implied.)
Killing a tyrant to save an entire city should've been a solid career move. Unfortunately, Westerosi politics had the same logic as a drunk sellsword at a tavern brawl—loud, stupid, and likely to stab you for reasons that made no sense.
Still. No time to wallow.
Jaime turned away from the corpse and strode toward the Iron Throne, the most uncomfortable-looking chair in existence. He paused, tilting his head. Technically, he had just removed the previous occupant. Finders, keepers? Would that work?
...Probably not.
And then he remembered.
Elia. The children.
His stomach twisted. For a second, all he could hear was Aerys screaming, "Burn them all!" That wasn't just about the city. He had meant Rhaegar's wife. His children.
Jaime turned on his heel and sprinted out of the throne room, his armor clanking loudly. He wasn't sure if it was instinct, duty, or just the sudden horrifying realization that nobody else would do the right thing, but he had to get to them.
The hallways of the Red Keep were chaos—smoke curling through the air, servants running in terror, bodies slumped in corners. The walls were slick with something Jaime refused to think about.
"Okay, Maidenvault," Jaime muttered, dodging a severed hand that definitely hadn't been there five minutes ago. "Left at the hallway of existential dread, right past the tapestry of questionable taste—"
He nearly collided with a soldier in Lannister colors. The man yelped, nearly dropping his sword.
"Ser Jaime!" he stammered. "The prince's family—"
"I know," Jaime snapped, shoving past him. "That's why I'm running."
The corridor leading to the Maidenvault was blocked—because of course it was—by two Gold Cloaks looking shifty as hell.
"You two," Jaime barked, stopping just short of running them over. "Move."
One of them licked his lips. "Prince Rhaegar's dead, ser. Lord Tywin—"
"Isn't here," Jaime cut in. "I am." He raised his sword just enough to make a point. "Move."
The smarter of the two decided he had pressing business elsewhere. The other hesitated just long enough for Jaime to let out an exasperated sigh before slamming the hilt of his sword into the guy's helmet. The Gold Cloak crumpled.
"Should've moved," Jaime muttered, shoving open the doors.
Inside, Elia Martell stood like a queen, spine straight, head high. She held baby Aegon against her chest, Rhaenys clinging to her skirts. Despite the flickering candlelight, despite the way the entire world was literally falling apart outside, she looked calm. Regal.
She turned her dark, knowing eyes on him, taking in his bloody armor, the way his chest heaved.
"You're late," she said, arching a perfect eyebrow.
Jaime blinked. "Sorry. I was busy committing treason." He gestured vaguely behind him. "Had to murder a king, whole thing. Very dramatic."
Elia didn't so much as flinch. "Did he suffer?"
Jaime considered this. "Not as much as he deserved."
"Pity." She adjusted her grip on Aegon, then glanced down at Rhaenys, who was staring at Jaime with her mother's sharp gaze. "Ser Jaime's come to take us somewhere safe."
Rhaenys frowned. "You're all bloody."
Jaime glanced down at himself. "Yeah, well, your grandfather was in a 'death before surrender' mood. I had to improvise."
Rhaenys considered this. "Did you punch him?"
Jaime smirked. "Better. I stabbed him."
Elia exhaled sharply. It might have been a laugh.
Jaime turned serious. "We need to go. Now."
Elia didn't argue. Didn't hesitate. She just nodded once. And that—that right there—was why Rhaegar hadn't deserved her.
Jaime sheathed his sword and held out a hand. "Do you trust me?"
Elia gave him a long, assessing look. Then, with a grace most queens couldn't manage, she passed Aegon into his arms and took Rhaenys by the hand.
"Not even slightly," she said. "But you're all I have."
Jaime let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Fair enough," he said.
And together, they stepped into the storm.
—
Jaime Lannister was having an absolutely terrible day.
First, he killed his king. Which, in theory, should have made him feel pretty heroic, considering said king had been about five seconds away from turning King's Landing into a barbecue pit. But no. He barely had time to wipe Aerys' blood off his sword before two of the nastiest men in Westeros decided to make things significantly worse.
Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane were heading straight for the Maidenvault, where Elia Martell and her children were hiding. And by "heading," Jaime meant stomping through the Red Keep like two armored war rhinos with severe anger issues.
"Oh, fantastic," Jaime muttered to himself. "I just saved the city, and now I get to fight Westeros' least charming murder enthusiasts. Truly, the gods are kind."
Behind him, Elia Martell—regal even in a crisis—clutched baby Aegon to her chest while Rhaenys clung to her skirts. She looked at Jaime, dark eyes sharp and unflinching. "Can you hold them off?"
Jaime grinned, flipping his sword in his hand. "Elia, I'm the best swordsman in Westeros. I'm offended you even had to ask."
Then the doors crashed open.
Ser Amory Lorch, a man who always looked like he was halfway through choking on his own stupidity, stepped in first. His piggy eyes scanned the room before landing on Jaime. "Lannister," he sneered. "Step aside."
Jaime tilted his head. "Sure. And while we're making ridiculous requests, why don't you try winning a fight without looking like you're flailing through a pigsty?"
Amory scowled and drew his sword. "You're dead, boy."
Jaime sighed dramatically. "I hear that a lot." Then he lunged.
Lorch might have been decent against terrified peasants, but against Jaime Lannister? It was almost embarrassing. Jaime sidestepped his clumsy swing, slapped his blade aside like he was swatting a fly, and buried his own sword in Amory's gut.
Lorch made a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a dying pig's squeal before he crumpled to the ground.
"Wow," Jaime said, wiping his sword on Lorch's cloak. "That was almost disappointing."
Then the room got a lot darker.
Gregor Clegane had arrived.
Seven hells, the man was enormous. It wasn't like Jaime hadn't seen him before, but facing him alone in a small chamber? That was a whole new level of terrifying. Gregor loomed in the doorway, filling it almost entirely, his armor blackened with soot and blood. His sword was the size of a small child. His expression? Pure murder.
Jaime exhaled slowly. "Gregor. You are… alarmingly large."
Gregor said nothing. Because of course he didn't. He wasn't here to banter. He was here to kill.
The Mountain raised his sword and swung. Jaime barely ducked in time, feeling the blade pass so close that it stirred his hair. He rolled aside, coming up in a crouch.
"Princess Elia," he called, keeping his eyes locked on Gregor. "Now might be a good time to start praying."
Gregor swung again. Jaime deflected the blow, but the sheer force of it nearly knocked him off his feet. He staggered back, adjusting his grip.
Okay. New plan: survive.
"I have to ask," Jaime said, dodging another swing. "Does Sandor get Nameday presents? Or is that another thing you smash with your giant sword?"
No reaction. Gregor just kept coming, relentless as a battering ram.
Jaime parried another blow and slid to the side, slicing at Gregor's arm. His sword barely scratched the armor. Great. He was fighting a walking fortress.
Elia was watching, still as a statue, her children pressed against her. Rhaenys had her tiny fists balled up, staring at Jaime like he was her only hope. Which, unfortunately, he was.
Jaime gritted his teeth. He had to hold. Just long enough.
His arms were starting to ache. Gregor was too strong, too big. Jaime was fast, but how long could he keep dodging before one of those swings landed?
Anytime now, reinforcements.
Gregor lunged. Jaime barely got his sword up in time. The force sent him crashing into the wall, pain flaring through his ribs.
Okay. That one hurt.
He forced himself to stand, shaking off the impact. "Alright, Mountain," he panted. "Let's see how long it takes before you get bored and leave."
Gregor didn't leave.
Jaime's grip tightened on his sword. He was fast. He was clever. But Gregor was an avalanche. And avalanches didn't stop for anyone.
He just had to last a little longer. Someone had to be coming. Right?
Jaime swallowed. "Anytime now," he muttered to himself.
Because he was Jaime Lannister. And he wasn't going to die in a room full of screaming children and bad life choices. Not today.
—
Jaime Lannister was having one of those days. You know, the kind where you wake up, put on your finest armor, and head out to engage in a fight that's definitely not in your favor. Oh, and your sword hand gets chopped off. But hey, at least he'd been getting good at this whole "dying heroically" thing, right?
Right?
He was facing down Ser Gregor Clegane, who was basically a walking, talking nightmare. The Mountain wasn't just big—he was big in the way that the whole world seemed to shrink around him when he moved. Jaime was doing his best to keep his wits about him, but every time Gregor lifted that massive sword, it felt like the entire room was about to be wiped off the map.
"You may be here on the orders of my father," Jaime said, trying his best to sound like the cool, collected warrior he used to be. "But I serve a higher purpose. I'm here to save the innocent, keep some semblance of honor alive—something I'm guessing you don't know much about."
Okay, so maybe that line was more of a mental victory than an actual one. His voice cracked just a bit, and his knees were shaking more than a leaf in the wind. But hey, dramatic effect, right? He hoped.
The Mountain didn't respond. Of course, he didn't. He just stared at Jaime with the same look you'd give a bug under a boot. And Jaime? He was the bug. And he was very much aware of it.
Jaime adjusted his grip on his sword like a man who wasn't about to get his ass handed to him—except that he was very much about to get his ass handed to him. He sidestepped a massive swing from Gregor, feeling the air hum as the blade passed a hair's breadth from his face. Okay, that was close. He was still alive. For now.
"Is that all you've got?" Jaime taunted, dodging to the left. "I've faced worse before—before my morning coffee even kicked in!"
Gregor growled, clearly not into banter. His sword swung again, narrowly missing Jaime, but sending him tumbling backward. Jaime scrambled to his feet, cursing the gods for letting him get into this situation.
"Alright, maybe I'm not quite as good as I thought," Jaime muttered to himself. "But hey, I've still got my charm. That's gotta count for something, right?"
And then the inevitable happened. One moment, he was dodging and weaving, and the next—WHAM! The Mountain's sword came down like a freight train, and before Jaime could even react, his sword hand flew clean off. Yeah, that wasn't the kind of injury you just shake off.
He stumbled back, his stump now the most interesting thing about him. His head was swimming. Blood dripped down, and the whole world started to feel like one big, giant blur. He sank to his knees, clutching the stump, which—let's be honest—wasn't exactly doing much to stop the bleeding.
"Well, crap," Jaime muttered, his voice barely a whisper. "This is embarrassing."
And just when Jaime thought it couldn't get worse, it did. Because that's how life works, apparently. His head was spinning, his vision fading, and then—BOOM. A massive roar filled the room, shaking the very walls. Jaime blinked. Did he hallucinate that? Had the gods sent some giant, world-ending monster to finish him off?
Nope. Nope, he had not imagined that.
Lord Greatjon Umber, the walking wall of muscle with a warhammer the size of a small tree, stomped into the room like he owned the place. He grinned at Gregor like he was about to offer him a friendly handshake. With a warhammer.
"GET AWAY FROM THEM!" Greatjon bellowed, charging forward, his warhammer raised high.
Now, Jaime had seen some things in his day. But seeing Gregor—the freaking Mountain—actually look surprised for a split second? That was new.
Before Gregor could process what was happening, Greatjon swung his warhammer with all the finesse of a bear trying to swat a fly. The Mountain went down like a pile of bricks. The thud of bone meeting stone echoed through the room, and for one glorious second, it seemed like the universe might actually be on Jaime's side.
Jaime, still reeling, wiped the blood from his face and scrambled back to his feet, not even realizing he was still holding onto his sword's hilt. "Well, I did think it was going to be a bit more of a team effort," Jaime said, trying to sound cool, though his breath was still coming in gasps. "But thanks for showing up, you know, about fifteen minutes too late."
Lord Umber shot him a grin, the kind that said, "Yeah, I just saved your life, but don't get used to it." "I was busy, Lannister. Don't make me do all the work, alright?"
Jaime couldn't help but roll his eyes. "I'll be sure to pass on that offer next time. But you know, nice timing."
They both turned toward the fallen Gregor, who was trying to get back on his feet, looking less like a man and more like a bear that had decided to try standing up on two legs. He was slow. Uncoordinated. And Jaime—well, Jaime still had one good hand, and as long as his legs didn't fail him, he wasn't going down without a fight.
"Let's finish this," Jaime said, his voice low, his tone filled with more grit than he'd felt in the last few minutes. The Mountain wasn't getting up again. Not if he had anything to say about it.
With Greatjon charging forward like a freight train, and Jaime moving around the fallen behemoth with surprising agility for a man with only one hand, the two of them became a storm of fury. Greatjon swung that hammer like it was a battering ram, while Jaime danced around the Mountain, aiming for weak spots with the precision of a man who'd spent his entire life trying to outwit, outmaneuver, and, occasionally, stab people.
Finally, with one last mighty blow, Lord Greatjon sent the Mountain into a crumpled heap on the floor. The room fell silent, save for the distant sounds of the wind howling outside.
Jaime wiped the blood from his face, letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His body was screaming in pain, but his mind—his mind was surprisingly clear.
"Well," Jaime said, straightening up, "that was certainly one way to go about it."
Lord Greatjon grunted. "Not bad for a Lannister, eh?"
Jaime chuckled, the sound hollow but real. "I've had worse. You're not half bad for a guy who looks like he punches bears for fun."
Greatjon flashed him a grin. "Don't make me do all the work next time, Lannister."
Jaime gave him a tired smile. "I'm sure I can find a way to get my sword hand back… Just don't let me die before we figure it out."
And for the first time that day, Jaime Lannister allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things weren't as bad as they seemed.
—
The dust in the chamber hadn't even had time to settle before the doors creaked open like they were auditioning for a horror film. In strode Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, with that grim aura he always had like he'd just stepped out of a brooding Viking epic. Behind him were the Northern lords, all wearing the expression of men who had been through a lifetime of battles and had a long list of grievances. And that list? It was probably topped with "Why is this idiot still alive?"
Jaime Lannister, sitting there in the wreckage of the battle, could practically feel their stares turning into daggers aimed straight at his heart. If looks could kill, he'd have been long dead. But hey, at least it wasn't a boring afternoon.
And then, of course, Lord Stark's eyes found Jaime. Now, Eddard Stark wasn't exactly the warm, welcoming type, but there was something about that stare that made Jaime feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.
"Well, well, well," Jaime muttered to himself. "A man of honor. This should be fun."
"Secure the royal family," Stark ordered, his voice like a blizzard cutting through the room. Behind him, the Northern lords moved into action—House Umber, Karstark, and Mormont—each one giving off that "we kill things for fun" vibe. They immediately surrounded Princess Elia and her children, their protective stance making it clear they were ready to defend them like a pack of wolves guarding the last scrap of meat in the kingdom.
Jaime, not exactly the hero of the hour, couldn't help but feel a flicker of gratitude. Sure, they were all probably planning to slice him into tiny pieces later, but at least they were doing something right now.
He tried to relax—key word: tried—but the air was so thick with tension it was practically suffocating. Everyone in the room seemed to be waiting for the next move, like a game of chess where the only pieces left were either completely useless or ready to cause a bloody massacre.
Then, Stark's gaze shifted back to him. The big moment. The one Jaime had been dreading.
"So," Stark said, his tone like a sword being sharpened. "Where is the king?"
Jaime took a deep breath, gearing up for the kind of conversation he had had with a million other people but in way more dramatic circumstances. "Oh, he's dead," Jaime said, voice as casual as if he was talking about the weather. "Killed him. King Aerys II. Real piece of work, that one. I mean, sure, he was a king, but who needs a king who wants to set the city on fire just because he didn't like how his morning went?"
There was a beat of silence, and Jaime could practically hear the collective gasp. A bunch of raised eyebrows and furrowed brows, some of them probably wondering if they should just drop dead from sheer shock.
Eddard Stark blinked twice, like he couldn't decide if Jaime had just admitted to being a complete madman or if there was some twisted logic behind it. Either way, the tension was so thick you could cut it with a sword.
"You killed the king," Stark repeated slowly, processing the words like he was trying to decode a riddle from a drunk bard.
"Yep," Jaime confirmed with a nonchalant shrug, wishing he had a drink to throw back, but apparently that wasn't on the menu today. "I had to. He was about to burn the whole city to the ground with wildfire. I don't know if you've noticed, but King's Landing isn't exactly made of fireproof materials. Thought I'd spare the locals, you know? A king who tries to burn everything down—he's not really king material, if you ask me."
The Northern lords looked at him like he had just sprouted a second head, but Jaime just stared them down. What else was he supposed to do? It wasn't like they were going to throw him a party for this, right?
Eddard Stark's jaw tightened, and there it was again—the judging stare. But this time, Jaime didn't flinch. He was used to it. Being the Kingslayer, it was kind of a full-time job.
"You broke your vows," Stark said. "You betrayed your king."
"Yeah, well," Jaime replied with a smirk, leaning back a little and spreading his arms. "Vows are tricky. I was sworn to protect the king, right? But when the guy's about to destroy everything with his own hands... might be time to rethink those vows, don't you think? Besides, who needs 'em when you've got good old-fashioned self-preservation on your side?"
Stark gave him that look again, as though Jaime was speaking in riddles instead of blunt truths. The man really needed to lighten up.
"But I'll tell you what," Jaime continued, starting to feel a little more comfortable in this awkward mess, "I did what I thought was right. Yeah, I'm a Kingslayer. Maybe that's not the best title to have at a dinner party, but I didn't just stand there and watch the city burn. So maybe I'm a villain. Maybe I'm a hero. Who knows? You can tell your grandkids that story."
At this point, Jaime wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or Stark, but whatever.
A long pause settled over the room. Stark didn't draw his sword. He didn't shout "Off with his head!" or any of the other dramatic things Jaime had expected. Instead, after what felt like an eternity of tense silence, Stark spoke again.
"You've done something grave, Jaime Lannister," Stark said, the weight of those words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. "You've broken your vows, betrayed your king, and defied the law. But…"
Jaime braced himself. This was it. The inevitable speech about justice and honor. Except…
Stark sighed. "But I can't ignore the truth of your words. A king who would burn his people alive is no king at all." He gave a reluctant shake of his head. "You're still a Kingslayer, Jaime. Still a man who broke his vows. But… I can't deny what you did."
Jaime blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open. This was… not what he expected.
"You'll be judged, Kingslayer," Stark added with a finality that carried all the weight of a thousand years of northern tradition. "By the gods, by men, and by time itself. But whether you're a hero or a villain, that's for the story to decide. And I'm not the one who gets to decide it. Maybe one day people will look back and say, 'Well, he did what had to be done.' Or maybe they'll call you a traitor. Who knows? Not me."
And with that, Lord Eddard Stark turned and left, his Northern lords following like a battalion of grim-faced soldiers, leaving Jaime standing there with his mouth open, completely dumbfounded.
Jaime glanced at Elia and her children, and then back at the empty space where Lord Stark had been. For a moment, he actually felt… well, maybe not good, but at least less bad about the whole Kingslayer thing.
"Well, I'll be damned," Jaime muttered to himself, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Maybe I'm not the worst guy in the room after all."
That, of course, earned him a few suspicious glances from the Northern lords. But Jaime didn't care. For the first time today, he actually felt like he had a shot at redemption. Even if that redemption came with a side of sarcastic banter and some very complicated family dynamics.
And thus, Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer and reluctant hero, stood alone in the ruins, wondering just how he was going to handle this new reputation.
—
Ned Stark strode into the Throne Room like a guy walking into a tavern after a long day, except this tavern was made of stone, had a couple of bodies strewn across the floor, and a throne that looked like it had been designed by someone with a serious grudge against their back. Honestly, he didn't know whether to sit on it or just burn the whole place down. But hey, he wasn't about to let his personal furniture preferences get in the way of duty.
As his boots clacked against the stone floor, he couldn't help but feel like everyone was just waiting for him to do something dramatic. That's the thing about being a Stark—you're always expected to be brooding and silent, especially when everyone's staring at you like you're the one who just lit the place on fire.
But nope. The stares weren't on him. They were on the body of King Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King himself, face-down in front of the Iron Throne like he was taking a nap after a bad day. Except, you know, dead. Not exactly the royal treatment he'd imagined.
Ned's jaw tightened. This was the guy who had murdered his brother, Brandon, and his father, Rickard. The guy who'd turned the realm into a game of "How Much Can I Ruin Before Lunch." It wasn't like Ned wanted to feel sorry for the guy, but he couldn't help but think of his father's voice ringing in his ears, "Do what's right, even when it's hard." Yeah, thanks, Dad. Real easy to do that when you've got the blood of your family all over your hands.
"I didn't want to be here today," he muttered to himself, kneeling beside Aerys's body, his breath shaky but his demeanor calm—because if you showed emotion in front of Robert Baratheon, you were basically begging to be the butt of a joke.
And speaking of Robert, the man himself came stomping in, looking like he'd just woken up on the wrong side of a boulder. He had that expression on his face, the one that said, "I'm about to ruin everyone's day, and I'm here for it." His boots thudded loudly on the stone, making it clear that, no, Robert Baratheon was never going to win any awards for subtlety.
"Dead man's still got blood on his boots," Robert grumbled, nudging Aerys's body with his foot, like it was just some dead animal he'd tripped over. Then—because, you know, why not?—he spat on the corpse. "Dragonspawn," he added with all the warmth of a grizzly bear in a bad mood. "And he thought he could rule us all."
Ned was about to open his mouth and ask Robert if he'd ever heard of dignity, but then he remembered that this was Robert Baratheon, and dignity was a foreign concept to him. Instead, he muttered, "Please tell me we're not doing this right now."
But of course, Robert didn't hear him. Or if he did, he didn't care. "So where are the other dragonspawn?" Robert asked, looking around like the rest of the Targaryens were hiding behind the curtains or something.
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, was trailing behind Robert like a guy who knew he should be somewhere else, preferably with a drink in hand. His brow furrowed in that way that screamed I'm too old for this, and he gave Ned a look that said, We're all doomed.
And then, as if summoned by the sheer force of his smugness, Tywin Lannister strolled in, looking like he'd just walked out of an ice storm. His face was completely blank, like the guy had a permanent frown etched into his features. Honestly, Ned was half expecting him to tell Robert to stop making noise. Tywin didn't even need to say anything—he just stood there and radiated "I'm better than all of you."
"What's the plan then, Tywin?" Robert asked, clearly not understanding how any conversation could happen without his complete and utter dominance.
"I've already taken care of it," Tywin said, not looking at anyone, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the floor like it had offended him. "The Targaryen line ends today."
"Good," Robert muttered. "But where's the rest of the family? I need to see those dragonspawn." He scowled. "And when I do, someone's getting hit in the head with a hammer. Just saying."
Ned stepped forward, his voice low but sure. "Actually, my men have already dealt with it," he said, glaring at Robert like this was his mess to clean up. "Elia Martell and her children are under our protection now."
There was a pregnant silence. You could practically hear Robert's brain struggling to process the words. Meanwhile, Tywin didn't even flinch. The guy had probably already calculated his next move in the time it took Robert to blink.
Robert was the first to recover. "And who the hell gave you the authority to countermand my orders?" His voice boomed with that natural kingly authority, except without the whole "charming" thing.
"Honor," Ned said, straightening up. "Justice. And the fact that I'm not about to stand by while you butcher innocent children just because they happen to have the wrong bloodline."
Robert snorted, like Ned had just cracked a bad joke. "Innocent? Really? I don't have time for innocent."
Jon Arryn finally opened his mouth, because it was either speak or explode from the internal tension. "Maybe," he began, his voice calm, measured, and drenched in years of diplomatic experience, "there's a middle ground. Elia Martell and her children could be sent to Winterfell, far from the capital, out of the political picture entirely."
Ned, not missing a beat, nodded. "I'll make sure they're safe there. The last thing we need is them causing trouble. Winterfell's far enough to be of no concern to you, Robert."
Robert mulled it over for a moment, tapping his chin like he was trying to solve a riddle. Finally, he let out a grunt. "Fine. But—" he added, holding up a finger, "—if I hear of any of them making trouble, I'll personally arrive in the North with my hammer to smash their heads in. You're warned, Stark."
Ned just nodded. "Understood."
Tywin, as always, stayed silent, his calculating gaze sharp as ever, as if he were just waiting for his next move.
With that, the room quieted, and for a moment, it almost felt like peace. But, of course, Ned knew better than to think it would last. This was Westeros. Peace was just the moment before the next big mess.
He turned, leaving the Iron Throne Room behind him, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he had made the right call. But given the people he was dealing with, it wouldn't be long before the next battle started. And he was ready for it.
Baby steps, Ned, he thought, Baby steps.
---
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