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Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
The solar felt too small. Aemon sat behind the Lord's desk, fingers drumming against scarred oak that bore marks from generations of Starks. The room held echoes of his father—UncleNed's, he reminded himself—presence. Maps sprawled across the surface, marking supply routes and grain storage, but his eyes saw none of it.
Jamie Lannister. The name burned like ice in his chest.
He'd held himself back in the great hall. Barely. The flames had wanted to answer, to consume the man who'd crippled Bran, who'd started the chain of events that led to war and ruin. His hands clenched, and he felt the heat building beneath his skin, that constant simmer that never quite left him now.
A knock at the door pulled him from dark thoughts.
"Your Grace," came Halvard's voice. One of the new guards, a Stark man who'd survived Bolton rule. "Lady Val wishes to speak with you."
Lady. The corner of Aemon's mouth twitched despite his foul mood. Val would love that.
"Let her in," he said, then added, "And she can come anytime. No need to announce her."
"As you command, Your Grace."
The door opened, and Val entered with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent her life moving through snow and ice. She shot the departing guard a look that could freeze blood, waiting until the door closed before turning to Aemon.
"They keep calling me Lady," she said, her voice carrying that particular edge of wildling irritation. "Lady Val. Like I'm some southern flower who faints at the sight of blood."
Aemon couldn't help it. Laughter bubbled up, breaking through the tension that had coiled in his chest since the hall. It started as a chuckle, then grew until his shoulders shook with it.
Val's glare could have melted the Wall.
"I'm sorry," he managed, raising a hand. "I just—" Another laugh escaped. "I knew you'd hate it."
"It ain't funny, Jon."
But her use of his old name, the one she'd always called him, somehow made it funnier. The absurdity of it all, with him sitting in Winterfell's solar as a dragon-blooded king, her being called Lady when she'd sooner gut a man than curtsy to him.
His laughter finally subsided, and he wiped at his eyes. "Truly, I'm sorry. It's just... mundane. After everything, the thought of you being bothered by southern courtesies is almost..."
"Almost what?"
"Human," he finished quietly. "Normal."
Something shifted in her expression, the irritation fading to understanding. She moved closer, rounding the desk to lean against it beside him.
"You might have to get used to another title soon enough," Aemon said, watching her face. "Seeing as you're my woman."
The glare transformed into something else entirely. Her lips curved, eyes darkening with heat that had nothing to do with dragonfire. "Aye, you stole me proper, didn't you? Guess I got to accept whatever useless titles come with that."
The wildling way. Taking what you wanted, claiming it as yours. No courtly games, no political maneuvering. Just honest desire and the strength to hold what you'd claimed.
But her expression shifted again, sobering. "What happened in the hall earlier? With that southern?"
Aemon's brief moment of levity died. His jaw tightened. "Jamie Lannister."
"The Kingslayer." Val knew her history, even if the Free Folk cared little for southern politics. "What's he done to you?"
"Not to me directly." Aemon rubbed his temples, feeling the pressure building behind his eyes. "He pushed Bran from a tower. Crippled him. My little brother—" His voice caught. "He's seven years old, Val. Was climbing like he always did, and Jamie Lannister threw him from a window to hide his secret."
Val's hand moved to the knife at her belt, an unconscious gesture. "Why's he still breathing?"
"I'm thinking about executing him." The words came out flat, honest. "Political consequences be damned. But there's a thought I can't shake."
She waited, patient in that wildling way that had nothing to do with southern courtesy and everything to do with letting a man work through his own mind.
"I talked to Bran recently," Aemon said. "Through the heart tree. He can speak through them now." He is still alive, somewhere beyond the wall. He can speak through them now."
Val's eyes widened, and she took a step back. "Your brother lives?" she breathed, and there was something like fear in her voice. "And a greenseer?!"
Aemon nodded. "He is still alive, somewhere beyond the wall. And apparently, he's learning from someone who shouldn't even still be alive. His abilities are..." He trailed off, remembering those white eyes, the roots growing through flesh. "Bran can see things. Past and, present. But he didn't tell me about Jamie."
"What d'you mean?"
"When Bran spoke to me, he warned me about threats. Told me about Cersei burning the Sept, about Aegon landing in Westeros, about Arya in Braavos. But he said nothing about Jamie Lannister. Nothing about the man who crippled him."
Val's brow furrowed. "You think he don't know?"
"He knows." Aemon was certain of it. "Bran sees through… time. He knew Jamie was coming before I did. He had to. But he chose not to tell me."
"Why?"
"That's what I can't figure out." Frustration bled into his voice. "Why wouldn't Bran want me to know his crippler was here? Unless..."
"Out with it. What is the 'unless'?"
"Unless there's a reason to keep Jamie alive." The words tasted bitter. "Something Bran sees that I don't."
Val studied him for a long moment. "Why don't you go to the heart tree again? Ask him straight."
"I tried." Aemon's hands clenched into fists. "After the hall, I went to the godswood. Touched the tree. Called for him. Nothing. Bran's not answering."
"Jon, he's beyond the wall still. He might have…"
"No. Bran has protection from them. For now." He looked up at her. "He's telling me something by his silence. I just don't know what."
Val moved closer, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. The touch grounded him, pulled him back from the edge of the fury that threatened to consume him. "You won't find your answer brooding in this room alone, Jon. You got a source waiting for you in the dungeons. One that might tell you what you need to know."
She was right. Jamie Lannister could answer questions Bran wouldn't. But...
"I can't question him. Not yet." Aemon met her eyes. "I don't trust myself not to kill him."
"Your Grace?" The guard's voice came through the door again. "Lady Sansa wishes to speak with you."
Val straightened, her hand leaving his shoulder. She moved toward the door, pausing to look back at Aemon with a heated expression that promised things better left for private chambers.
"Don't take too long for bed," she said, loud enough for the guard to hear, then added in a lower voice meant only for him, "You got questions that need answering. But you also got a woman waiting."
The door opened, and Sansa entered in a swirl of grey wool. She and Val exchanged pleasant greetings, two women who circled each other like she-wolves testing boundaries. Then Val was gone, and Sansa settled into the chair across from the desk.
"I won't take much of your time away from Val's bed," Sansa said with a sly look that was so unlike the girl he remembered that Aemon nearly laughed again.
"Sansa!"
"What? You're not exactly subtle either." Her smile faded, replaced by something more serious. "But if you do take Val as your wife, you need to prepare her for what that means. Southern nobility won't be as understanding as northern lords about Free Folk ways."
Aemon sighed, slumping back in his chair. "One problem at a time."
Sansa nodded, understanding flickering across her face. She'd learned to pick her battles, he realized. King's Landing had taught her that much.
"I came to ask about Jamie Lannister," she said. "What will you do with him?"
"I'll decide after I talk to him." The answer came easier than expected. "But I promise you this, Sansa. I'll do everything I can to retrieve Edmure. Even if it means keeping Jamie alive longer than I'd like."
Her expression softened. "Thank you. For considering it. Uncle Edmure is all Mother has left of her family, besides us."
Mother. The word hung between them, heavy with all it implied. Lady Stoneheart was not the woman who'd raised Sansa, just as she wasn't the woman who'd hated Aemon for being Ned's bastard.
"When are you heading south?" Sansa asked.
"Tomorrow."
"So soon?"
Aemon leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "The Freys are dead. I don't need to march an army to the Twins anymore. That frees me to focus on the Riverlands as a whole, then the rest of the south. Every day I delay is another day the realm stays divided."
Sansa absorbed this, then began offering advice. She spoke of the Reach's pride, the Stormlands' fractured loyalties, Dorne's desire for vengeance. She'd learned well in the south, Aemon realized. Learned to see the games beneath the games, the webs of alliance and betrayal that held the realm together.
He listened, grateful for her counsel even as part of him chafed at the necessity of it. He was a dragon. He could simply take what he needed. But that wasn't the Stark way, wasn't the way Ned had raised him.
The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Leadership meant more than power. It meant responsibility.
"There's one more thing," Sansa said as the night deepened beyond the windows. "Mother wants to see you before she leaves. She's not staying in the North."
Aemon went still. "Lady Catelyn wants an audience with me?"
"Yes."
Bitterness rose in his throat like bile. All those years of cold looks, of being reminded he didn't belong, that he was the stain on Ned Stark's honor. And now she wanted to speak with him?
"I have nothing to say to Lady Catelyn," he said, voice flat. "She can go where she pleases."
Sansa's face fell, but she nodded slowly. "I understand. But Jon..." She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. "I didn't know how important closure was until I saw her again. Even like this, even changed, there were things I needed to say. Things I needed to hear."
She stood, smoothing her skirts. "I hope you find your closure too. Whatever form it takes."
Then she was gone, leaving Aemon alone with his thoughts and the weight of too many decisions pressing down on his shoulders.
He stared at the maps without seeing them. Jamie Lannister in the dungeons. Lady Stoneheart wanting an audience. Bran's silence from the heart tree. The Wall falling within the year. The dead marching south. Dragons across the sea. A pretender in the Stormlands. A reaver with magic stirring chaos.
Too much. It was all too much.
But Val was right. He wouldn't find answers brooding alone in this room.
Aemon rose, extinguishing the candles one by one until only darkness remained. Tomorrow he would fly south. Tonight he would hold Val, and try to remember what it felt like to be simply Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, before the weight of crowns and prophecies had found him.
But soon enough, the south would see what a Targaryen prince could do when the realm needed saving.
Whether they wanted saving or not.
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Kingslanding, The Crownlands
The wind carried the stench of smoke across the battlements, a perfume sweeter than any the Tyrells had ever worn. Cersei breathed it in, filling her lungs with the scent of victory. Below, King's Landing sprawled like a cowed beast, silent and subdued. No cheers rose from the streets. No bells rang in celebration. Only the occasional cry of a raven broke the stillness, and the furtive shuffling of smallfolk who hurried through the shadows with their heads bowed.
Perfect.
"Mother?" Tommen's voice quavered beside her. "Why is everyone so quiet?"
Cersei placed a hand on her son's shoulder, feeling him flinch beneath her touch. The boy had grown taller these past months, but he remained soft, weak.
Like his father.
Cersei pushed the thought away. "They are quiet because they understand now," she said, her voice carrying across the battlements. "They understand what happens to those who threaten their king."
Tommen's green eyes were too wide, too frightened. "But the sept... all those people..."
"Traitors." The word came sharp as a blade. "Every one of them. The High Sparrow sought to usurp your authority, to make himself king in all but name. Lord Tyrell conspired with him, plotting to remove your mother from power so they could control you like a puppet." She turned him to face the city, forcing him to look. "Do you see how they fear now? That is respect, Tommen. That is how your grandfather commanded loyalty."
Father would have understood. Father would have seen the necessity of it, the brilliance. She could almost feel his presence beside her, that familiar weight of judgment that had followed her all her life. But this time, surely this time, he would nod in approval.
You see, Father? The words formed silently on her lips, spoken to the wind and the ghost that haunted her. I did what you never would. I cut out the rot, all of it, in a single blaze of glory.
The High Sparrow with his filthy feet and his presumption. Mace Tyrell with his preening and his schemes. The Faith Militant who had dared to imprison her, to make her walk naked through these very streets. That whore that dared challenge her. All of them, gone. Purged in green fire that had lit the sky like a second sun.
Eleven thousand men, Qyburn had reported. Eleven thousand enemies removed in an instant.
Father had spent years playing the game, moving pieces across the board with careful precision. But what had it gained him? A dwarf son who murdered him on a privy. A grandson who choked on poisoned wine. An empire that crumbled the moment he died.
No. Her way was better. Cleaner. Decisive.
"Mother, I don't feel well." Tommen's face had gone pale. "Can we go inside?"
"Not yet." She tightened her grip on his shoulder. "You need to understand this, Tommen. You need to learn what it means to be king. Fear lasts longer than love. Your father tried to rule through love, through tournaments and feasts and letting the realm do as it pleased. And what did it gain him? Rebellion. Treachery. Death."
"But Margaery loved me." Tears welled in the boy's eyes. "She was kind, and she smiled, and she never hurt anyone. Why did she have to die?"
For a moment, Cersei saw the girl's face, that perfect mask of sweetness concealing a viper's heart. Margaery had played her games well, she would grant her that. Worming her way into Tommen's bed, into his thoughts, turning him against his own mother with honeyed words and practiced affection.
"Margaery Tyrell was a whore," Cersei said flatly. "She spread her legs for half the court and conspired with her family to control you. She would have poisoned you eventually, to let one of her lovers back into her bed."
"No!" Tommen wrenched away from her grasp. "That's not true! Margaery was good, she was kind!"
"She was a traitor." Cersei caught his arm, pulling him back. "And traitors die, Tommen. That is the way of the world. The sooner you learn that, the better." She softened her voice, stroking his golden hair. "You are young still. You don't understand these things. But I will find you a suitable queen, someone worthy of a Lannister king. Someone loyal."
Someone she could control. Someone who wouldn't fill his head with dangerous notions of love and mercy.
Tommen said nothing, only stared at the city with tears streaming down his soft cheeks. Let him weep. Boys his age were meant to weep. But he would harden, in time. She would make certain of it.
The wind shifted, bringing a fresh wave of smoke. Cersei breathed it in again, savoring it.
This is what happens to those who oppose the lioness.
"Your Grace." Qyburn's soft voice came from behind her. "The small council awaits."
She turned to find him standing in the doorway, his grey robes immaculate despite the ash that coated everything. Ser Robert Strong loomed behind him, a mountain of white armor and silence.
"Take the king to his chambers," Cersei commanded. "See that he eats something. He looks peaked."
Tommen went without protest, shuffling past Qyburn like a ghost himself. The boy needed to find his spine. Perhaps she should send him to Casterly Rock for a time, let him learn what it meant to be a Lannister away from all these soft influences.
But not yet. Not while enemies still circled.
"Walk with me," she told Qyburn, moving along the battlements toward the Red Keep's heart. Ser Robert Strong followed three paces behind, his footsteps heavy as thunder.
"You have news?" she asked.
"Ser Jaime, Your Grace." Qyburn's voice remained soft as silk. "My little birds have heard nothing."
She felt the familiar twist in her chest—half concern, half fury. Her twin, her other half, still missing. "Someone would have sent word if he'd been taken," she said, more sharply than intended. "A ransom demand. A crow from whatever petty lord thought to profit from a Lannister."
"Indeed, Your Grace."
"He'll turn up." The words came easier now, wrapped in certainty she forced herself to feel. Jaime always turned up. He was hers, bound to her by blood and flesh. "He's likely riding back already, delayed by mud and broken bridges."
Qyburn inclined his head, accepting her pronouncement without question. "Several other matters require your attention, Your Grace." Qyburn's voice never changed, never showed emotion. It was one of the things she valued most about him. "First, the casualties from the sept have been tallied. Eleven thousand four hundred and seventy-three souls, including Lord Mace Tyrell and most of the Tyrell household guard."
Eleven thousand. The number should have troubled her. Instead, she felt only satisfaction. "And Margaery?"
"No body has been recovered, Your Grace. The fire burned too hot."
Good. Let there be nothing left of the little queen but ash and memory. "What else?"
"Lady Olenna has withdrawn to Highgarden with what remains of her forces. My little birds report that she has sent ravens to Storm's End."
Cersei stopped walking. "Storm's End?"
"To Jon Connington, Your Grace. It would seem the Tyrells seek alliance with the boy who claims to be Aegon Targaryen."
For a moment, fury threatened to overwhelm her. The old woman dared? After everything, after the mercy Cersei had shown by not hunting down every last Tyrell in the realm, Olenna had the audacity to conspire with a pretender?
Then the fury passed, replaced by cold amusement. Let them come. Let them all come.
"A grieving grandmother and a Blackfyre pretender," she said, resuming her walk. "How formidable. I'm sure they'll pose a terrible threat."
"Your Grace, the reports from Addam Marbrand show the boy is a threat. His forces grow daily."
"His forces." Cersei laughed, the sound sharp in the still air. "What forces? A few thousand sellswords and whatever rabble Jon Connington could scrape together? I have the wealth of Casterly Rock, the might of the Westerlands, and the loyalty of the crownlands. What does this boy have? A name that isn't even his. Aegon Targaryen died in King's Landing, his head smashed against a wall by Ser Gregor. This boy is a mummer's dragon, nothing more. When he comes, we'll cut him down like the fraud he is."
"And the Tyrells, Your Grace?"
"And the sellswords from Essos?" Cersei asked. "Have you secured them?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Qyburn answered, his voice smooth as silk. "Ten thousand swords in total, Your Grace. They should reach King's Landing within a moon, weather permitting."
Ten thousand. Not the twenty thousand she'd hoped for, but enough. Combined with the Lannister forces and what remained of the Crown's levies, it would have to be enough.
"Good." She resumed walking, her skirts whispering against the stone. "And their price?"
"Substantial, but manageable. They require half payment upfront, the remainder upon completion of service. I took the liberty of arranging the initial transfer through the Iron Bank."
Now Cersei did smile, cold and sharp as broken glass. "The Iron Bank will get their money, and the Tyrells coffers will solve that. They are traitors who conspired against my son, who sought to control him through that whore of a granddaughter. Their flowers will burn just as brightly as the High Sparrow's robes."
Father would have counseled patience. Father would have spoken of alliances and careful maneuvering, of buying enemies and breaking them from within. But Father was dead, murdered by the Imp, and his careful strategies had died with him.
She was not Tywin Lannister. She was something better. Something stronger.
"Dispatch riders to the Westerlands," she commanded. "I want new levies marching for King's Landing within the fortnight. And send word to Casterly Rock. I'll need gold, as much as can be spared."
"For the war effort, Your Grace?"
"For the Red Keep." She gestured at the ancient fortress rising before them. "This place has been neglected for too long. I want new furnishings for the throne room, proper tapestries, golden fixtures. The sept is gone, which means we'll need to establish a new center of worship within the castle itself. Something grand. Something that reminds the realm who truly rules."
She caught the briefest flicker of something in Qyburn's eyes. Not disapproval, never that. Merely calculation.
"The Lannister mines produce less gold than they once did, Your Grace. Perhaps it would be prudent to conserve resources until the threats to your rule have been eliminated."
"The threats?" Cersei stopped before the entrance to the throne room. "What threats? A pretender with a sellsword army? An old woman with a grudge? I am the Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, mother to the king, daughter of Tywin Lannister. I have just proven that I can burn my enemies to ash with a word. Who exactly should I fear?"
Qyburn inclined his head. "As you say, Your Grace. I shall see to the arrangements after the meeting."
"Good." She pushed through the doors into the throne room.
The Iron Throne rose before her, a twisted mass of swords and malice. Robert had sat there for seventeen years, growing fat and drunk while the realm rotted around him. Joffrey had barely had time to warm the seat before choking on Tyrell poison. And now Tommen, sweet weak Tommen, who wept for a dead whore and flinched from his own shadow.
But the throne was hers. It had always been hers, from the moment she first saw it as a girl. Father had promised her a prince, a throne, a crown. He had delivered on the first two. The crown she would take for herself.
"Your Grace." A steward approached, bowing low. "The small council awaits your pleasure."
Cersei swept past him into the council chamber. The room felt larger now, emptier. Where once it had been crowded with lords and advisors, now only a handful remained. Qyburn took his place at her right hand. Ser Robert Strong stood behind her chair, silent as death. Three lesser lords sat at the far end of the table, men whose names she barely remembered. Creatures of Qyburn's finding, loyal because they had nowhere else to turn.
Perfect.
"The old council is dissolved," she announced, settling into her seat. "Too many traitors, too many schemers. This council will be different. Leaner. Stronger."
The lesser lords exchanged glances but said nothing. Good. They understood their place.
"Lord Qyburn." She turned to him. "I name you Hand of the Queen. You have served me faithfully when others betrayed me. You have shown me solutions when others offered only problems. You will continue to do so."
Qyburn bowed his head. "I am honored, Your Grace. I shall serve as best I am able."
"You will serve perfectly." She had no doubt of it. Qyburn asked no questions, held no moral qualms, pursued no agenda beyond her will. He was the perfect Hand, the Hand her father should have been.
"Now." She leaned forward. "Let us discuss the realm."
The discussion that followed was brief and satisfying. The lesser lords reported on grain stores, on city watch numbers, on the mood of the smallfolk. All of it predictable, all of it manageable. When one of them dared suggest sending more forces to counter Aegon's advance in the Stormlands, Cersei dismissed it with a wave.
"The boy will overextend himself," she said. "Let him take a few castles, let him think himself a conqueror. When he marches on King's Landing, we'll be waiting. The city walls have never fallen to assault. We'll bleed his forces dry and hang his corpse from the battlements."
"And if he doesn't march on King's Landing, Your Grace?" The lord who spoke looked immediately terrified of his own boldness.
"Then we'll deal with him when the time comes." Cersei's voice cut through his fear like a knife through silk. "I have more immediate concerns than some pretender playing at conquest."
The council ended shortly after. The lesser lords scurried away like mice, leaving her alone with Qyburn and Ser Robert Strong.
Somewhere beyond the walls, enemies plotted. Let them. She had burned the High Sparrow and his fanatics. She had burned Mace Tyrell and his whore of a daughter. She could burn anyone who dared oppose her.
The Iron Throne waited in the next room, a crown of swords forged by dragon fire. Soon, very soon, she would sit upon it not as regent but as queen in her own right. Tommen would rule in name, but she would hold the true power. She would reshape the realm in her image, strong and terrible and pure.
You see, Father? she thought again, staring at the smoke that still rose from the sept's ruins. I've won. I've done what you never could. I've seized power absolutely.