Moments later, Cersei Lannister entered the throne hall, bringing with her the trembling Sansa Stark, who looked as if she had just crawled out of a nightmare.
The once-gentle queen had become a stranger, her father was now branded a traitor, and the entire world seemed to have turned upside down. Sansa's mind was a storm of fear and confusion.
As soon as she saw Jon standing calmly in the center of the hall, arms folded around his sword, she could no longer hold back. She ran forward, her voice shaking with panic:
"Jon! What's happening? Where are Father and Arya? Why—why is all this—"
Smack!
Jon's hand came down across her cheek, silencing her at once.
"Are you done talking?" he said coldly. "Good. Then get ready to leave. We're going back to Winterfell."
"You—you bastard! How dare—"
Smack!
Another slap. Jon's tone dropped lower, almost freezing:
"You should be grateful you're a Stark. If you weren't Father's daughter, Arya's sister, I wouldn't even bother keeping you alive. Do you understand me? Now move. We're leaving King's Landing. Don't make me say it a third time."
Ignoring Sansa's tears of disbelief, Jon turned to Cersei and smiled politely. "Forgive the outburst, Your Grace. The girl is young and foolish."
Cersei, who had by now grasped exactly where Jon's bottom line lay, smiled graciously in return. "It's quite all right. We've all been young once."
Then, with a touch of calculation in her voice, she added, "You know, the alliance between House Stark and the Crown doesn't have to end."
Jon chuckled. "If you put Prince Tommen on the throne, I see no problem with that. But not Joffrey. That one's worse than the Mad King. At least Aerys only killed his enemies—he never tried to harm his own kin."
Cersei's face darkened instantly. However true Jon's words were, they struck straight at her heart. Beside her, Jaime Lannister stiffened awkwardly, shame flickering behind his eyes. As the man who'd slain the Mad King, being told his son was worse cut deeper than any blade.
Jon ignored them both and turned toward the corner where Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger—had been doing his best to fade into the background. Smiling pleasantly, Jon approached.
"Lord Baelish," he said in a tone that was almost friendly, "I've heard quite a bit about you. Sounds like you made my father's life... complicated."
"Ah? No, no, I—there must be some mistake, my lord—"
Jon clapped a heavy hand on Littlefinger's shoulder, nearly forcing him to his knees. "No hard feelings. Honestly, I don't blame you. My father was too proud for his own good. Thought honor could buy loyalty. If I were you, I'd have done the same thing."
Baelish blinked in disbelief—then flinched as Jon's fingers tightened, digging deep into his flesh. Jon's voice lowered to a deadly murmur.
"But there's something I do want from you. From now on, you will never approach anyone from House Stark again. Not my father. Not Robb. Not Sansa. Not Arya. Not Bran. Not Rickon. Not even my mother. Not a word. Not a letter."
His grip crushed down harder, and Littlefinger gasped soundlessly in pain.
"If I ever hear that you've tried," Jon continued, smiling faintly, "I'll cut off your arms and legs and leave you in the snows of the North to freeze and scream until the crows take what's left. Understood?"
When Littlefinger failed to answer, Jon sighed, feigning concern. "Oh—can't talk, can you? Should've said something sooner. Nod if you understand."
Littlefinger nodded frantically. Jon released him at once, watching the man collapse to the floor clutching his shoulder, trembling.
"Good," Jon said quietly. "Remember that pain. Next time, it'll be a hundred times worse."
He turned away, letting Littlefinger writhe behind him, and looked toward Tyrion Lannister.
"Lord Tyrion," Jon said lightly, "if you ever come North again, let me know in advance. I'll make sure you're properly entertained."
Tyrion gave a lopsided grin. "We'll see. I expect I'll be rather busy for a while—too many matters to settle."
Jon's smile deepened. "Ah yes. Two crowned stags, one Iron Throne. Quite the puzzle. I look forward to seeing how your family solves it."
That subtle remark hit home immediately. The clever minds in the room—Cersei's among them—understood what he meant.
Cersei's eyes lit with sudden clarity. "Jon Snow," she said slowly, "you could stay in King's Landing. Name your price—land, gold, titles, women. Whatever you want, it's yours. I swear on my honor as Queen Dowager."
For the first time, true ambition flickered behind her gaze—she imagined uniting Lannister power with Jon's terrifying might. With him at her side, who in the Seven Kingdoms could oppose her?
Jon only smiled, bowing slightly. "I appreciate the offer, Your Grace. Truly. But I'm afraid I can't. I don't serve kings who would sacrifice their own blood. I'm sorry."
Cersei's expression faltered, but she said nothing. For the first time, she looked at Joffrey not with love—but with doubt. Perhaps Tommen…
Jon gave one last courteous nod to the room, offered a soft apology to Princess Myrcella, then turned to the still-stunned Sansa, took her by the arm, and together they walked out of the throne hall—
—leaving behind a room full of silent, shaken lions.
~~--------------------------
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