"Let go of my daughter, you filthy bastard!"
Seeing Myrcella Baratheon trembling in terror, Cersei Lannister, who had been battered by one disaster after another today, finally lost control. Her composure shattered, she shouted furiously:
"If you so much as harm a single hair on her head, I will—"
Shing!
A flash of swordlight split the air.
A single strand of golden hair drifted lazily down from above.
Aedric tilted his head and asked with feigned innocence:
"You will… what? Please, do continue. I'm all ears."
The interruption froze Cersei mid-sentence, her threat swallowed back into her throat. Her eyes went wide in disbelief, rage, and humiliation.
She wanted to scream at him for being shameless—for not following the "rules" of confrontation—but no words came.
Tyrion Lannister, ever quick on his feet, stepped forward and gently pulled his sister toward Jaime, placing himself between them. Recovering his own composure, he forced a wry smile.
"Long time no see, Jon. I didn't expect our reunion after Winterfell would be under such… dramatic circumstances."
"Ah, Lord Imp," Aedric said with a cordial nod, smiling pleasantly as if they were old drinking buddies instead of adversaries. "And by the way, I'll have you know—I'm completely human. And I don't need to make anyone look shorter to feel better about myself."
The hall fell utterly silent.
The nobles and knights stared at him, astonished. How could he have heard Tyrion's earlier joke from outside the chamber? The realization sent another ripple of dread through the crowd.
Aedric ignored their stares and turned toward Gregor Clegane, who was subtly edging backward toward the nearest exit.
"Ah, Ser Gregor. There you are."
He smiled brightly.
"I've been looking for you, you know. Didn't see your corpse on the field—quite the disappointment, really. I must admit, you're the first man I've ever struck with full force who didn't die on the spot. I'm impressed."
Then his tone shifted, playful yet sharp as steel.
"So, next time we meet, I'll be sure to swing seventeen or eighteen times in a row—just to make sure I reduce that mountain-sized body of yours to paste."
The towering knight's face twitched.
The Mountain, who had crushed countless men without blinking, did not so much as open his mouth in reply. His left hand gripped his sword hilt, his eyes darting toward the doors, clearly calculating how to flee the instant things went wrong.
Sorry, Lord Tywin, he thought bitterly. It's not that I won't defend your children… it's that I can't defend them from him.*
If Gregor's cowardice was pitiful, the reaction of the remaining Gold Cloaks was worse.
The moment they saw this nightmare of a man again, several collapsed to the ground in terror, shaking uncontrollably. A few even fainted dead away. Whatever had happened on that battlefield had clearly scarred them beyond repair.
"Enough! What do you want!"
Jaime Lannister finally snapped, sword drawn, placing himself protectively in front of his sister as he glared at Aedric.
"Isn't it obvious, Ser Jaime?"
Aedric smiled faintly and rested a comforting hand on Myrcella's trembling shoulder.
"One for one. The king's princess, in exchange for the duke's daughter. Seems fair to me."
"You're dreaming! Never!"
Joffrey Baratheon finally found his voice—and, predictably, started screaming.
"Guards! Kill that bastard! I am your king—I command you! Kill him at once!"
"Joffrey, are you insane?!"
Cersei spun on him, disbelief and fury twisting her face.
"Your sister is in his hands! Do you want her to die?!"
But Joffrey puffed up even more, his voice shrill with self-righteous arrogance.
"I am the King! My will is law! No one—no one—can stand in my way! Not even my sister!"
He turned and screamed again:
"Guards! That's an order! Kill him now!"
The Gold Cloaks exchanged uncertain glances.
Not one of them moved.
Their eyes flicked toward Cersei and Jaime, not toward the boy on the throne. They all knew perfectly well who really ruled here—and it wasn't the brat in the crown.
Watching the entire royal family's farce unfold before him, Aedric could only sigh.
"I knew you were trash, boy," he said calmly. "But I didn't expect you to be this trash. Still, I never actually planned to end things this easily. After all…"
He released Myrcella's shoulder and smiled, eyes glinting with mischief as he looked up at the Iron Throne.
"…the most valuable hostage here isn't the princess."
Every sword in the hall tensed.
"Protect the king!"
The Kingsguard surged forward, forming a wall of white cloaks around Joffrey.
But walls mean nothing to a storm.
In a blur faster than thought, Aedric moved. One heartbeat he was standing by the doors; the next, he was already atop the dais of the Iron Throne.
The clash of steel rang out like thunder—then crash!
Several Kingsguard were hurled bodily across the hall, armor dented, bones shattering as they slammed into the marble floor. Even the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy—"the Bold"—was among those knocked flying.
(Well, technically he hadn't yet been dismissed by King Joffrey, but details, details.)
Aedric exhaled lightly, as if stretching after a workout.
"Impressive metallurgy," he mused. "Those swords of yours didn't shatter outright. Would've been a shame to waste such craftsmanship."
Then, without another word, he pressed his gleaming blade against Joffrey Baratheon's pale throat.
The boy froze—eyes wide, lips trembling.
Aedric smiled politely.
"Your Majesty," he said softly, "this humble bastard, Jon Snow, pays his respects."
The tip of his sword pricked the king's skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Now, be a good ruler and order your people to bring me my dear sister, Sansa Stark. In exchange…"
He leaned in close, his voice a whisper cold enough to freeze the boy's soul.
"…you get to keep your pretty little head."
Then, with mock courtesy, he asked:
"How about it, Your Majesty?"
~~--------------------------
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