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"You," Jon managed again, his voice steadier this time though his heart hammered against his ribs. "You're the woman from my dreams."
She smiled, a expression both sad and knowing. "Dreams have a way of showing us truths we're not ready to see when awake." Her purple eyes—so startlingly similar to his own—seemed to glow in the torchlight. "I am Ashara Dayne, Jon Snow. And yes, I am very real."
Ashara Dayne. The name hit Jon like a hammer. He'd heard whispers of her—the beautiful lady of Starfall who had supposedly thrown herself from a tower after bearing a stillborn daughter. Yet here she stood, very much alive, very much real.
Jon forced himself to focus on her face rather than the memories of his dreams—memories that made his cheeks burn with shame. In those visions, she had been... intimate with him in ways that made him deeply uncomfortable now that she stood before him in flesh and blood. He pushed those thoughts aside, concentrating instead on her eyes.
"Your eyes," Jon said quietly. "They're like mine."
"Yes," Ashara replied, stepping closer. "Purple is not a common color, particularly in Westeros. It tends to run in certain bloodlines." She studied his face. "You have questions. I can see them burning behind those beautiful eyes."
Jon's mouth went dry. After so many years of wondering, of dreaming, of hoping—here was someone who might finally give him answers. "Are you..." he began, then stopped, afraid to voice the question that had haunted him his entire life.
"Speak freely, Jon. The corridor is empty, and Ghost would alert us if anyone approached."
Jon glanced at his direwolf, who sat calmly beside him, red eyes watching Ashara with what seemed like approval rather than suspicion. Even Ghost didn't see her as a threat.
"Are you my mother?" The words tumbled out in a rush, carrying with them sixteen years of longing and uncertainty.
Ashara's expression softened, and for a moment Jon thought he saw tears gathering in her purple eyes. She reached out slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, and touched his cheek with gentle fingers.
"Oh, sweet boy," she whispered. "No. I am not your mother."
The words hit Jon like Jaime Lannister's sword guard all over again. He actually staggered backward a step, his hopes crashing down around him. For a moment, he'd thought—he'd dared to believe—
"I'm sorry," Ashara said, her voice thick with emotion. "I can see how much you hoped..." She let her hand fall to her side. "But no, Jon Snow. I did not give birth to you."
Jon felt something inside his chest crack. He'd been so certain, so hopeful. The purple eyes, the dreams, the falling star pendant—it had all seemed to point to her. "Then why—why do you appear in my dreams? Why do our eyes match?"
"Because me and one of your parent shared coloring," Ashara explained gently. "I made her a promise before she died—a promise I have spent sixteen years trying to keep."
Jon's breath caught. "You knew my mother?"
"I knew her better than anyone, save perhaps one other woman." Ashara's voice grew heavy with grief. "She was the most beautiful, spirited woman I have ever known. Brave beyond measure, with a heart like a direwolf."
"What was her name?" Jon asked desperately. "Please, I have to know something—anything—about her."
Ashara hesitated, glancing around the empty corridor. "That is a dangerous question in this place, Jon. Names have power. They can save lives or end them."
"I don't care about the danger," Jon said fiercely, his eyes burning. "I've lived my whole life as a nameless bastard, not knowing who gave me life. Please."
"Your mother..." Ashara began, then shook her head. "No. Not here. Not like this. The Red Keep has too many ears, and some truths are too large for whispered conversations in corridors."
Jon's frustration boiled over. "Then when? When will someone finally tell me the truth?"
"Next week," Ashara said firmly in a very hushed voice that even Jon found it difficult to hear. "Meet me in the godswood after the evening meal, when the castle sleeps. I will tell you everything then—about your mother, about your birth, about why Lord Stark has kept these secrets for so long."
"My father?" Jon frowned. "What does Lord Stark have to do with—"
"Everything," Ashara interrupted. "Lord Stark is a good man, Jon, but the choices he made... they were not easy ones. The truth he carries has been a burden for sixteen years."
Jon's mind reeled. "What truth? What choices?"
Ashara stepped closer again, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "The truth about who you really are. About the blood that flows in your veins. About why certain people would kill to keep you silent, and why others would die to see you claim what is rightfully yours."
"I don't understand," Jon said. He didn't know why, but his mind went to the dragon eggs.
"You will," Ashara promised. "But Jon, you must tell no one about our meeting. Not Lord Stark, not your sisters, not even Ghost." She glanced meaningfully at the direwolf. "The wrong word in the wrong ear could see us both dead by morning."
Jon nodded, though his throat felt tight. "Who would want us dead?"
"Those who profit from lies. Those who fear the return of older, stronger bloodlines." Ashara's eyes hardened. "Those who wear crowns built on usurped thrones."
Before Jon could ask what she meant, Ashara reached out and traced the fresh scar above his right eyebrow with one finger. Her touch was feather-light, almost reverent.
"This suits you," she said softly. "Your mother bore scars too—not on her face, but on her heart. She died protecting what she loved most."
"How did she die?" Jon asked, his voice hoarse.
"In childbirth," Ashara replied, and the simple words carried a weight of grief that made Jon's chest ache. "She died bringing you into this world, Jon. Her last words were for you to be safe."
Tears stung Jon's eyes.
"She wanted you to know," Ashara continued, "that you were loved. That you were wanted. That everything she did, every choice she made, was for you."
"What choices?" Jon managed.
Ashara's smile was sad and knowing. "Questions for another time, in a safer place." She stepped back, pulling her hood up over her dark hair. "Remember—the godswood, next week. Come alone."
"Wait," Jon called as she began to turn away. "At least tell me—if you're not my mother, then who—"
But Ashara Dayne was already disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep, her footsteps silent as a ghost's. Within moments, Jon stood alone with Ghost in the flickering torchlight, his mind spinning with new questions and half-answers.
Jon stared at the empty corridor for a long moment, trying to process everything Ashara had told him. She had died in childbirth, wishing for his safety with her last breath.
Ghost nudged his leg, bringing Jon back to the present. The direwolf's red eyes seemed knowing, as if he too understood that something significant had just occurred.
"Come on, boy," Jon murmured, reaching down to scratch Ghost's ears. "Let's go back to our chambers. I need to think."
As they walked through the quiet corridors, Jon's thoughts turned to Lord Stark—his father, who had carried this burden for sixteen years. What had happened during Robert's Rebellion that was so terrible it had to be hidden all this time? What choices had his mother made that still endangered people decades later?
And why did Ashara Dayne speak of usurped thrones and older bloodlines as if Jon might have some claim to something greater than bastardry?
Jon's hand moved to the scar above his eyebrow, remembering Ashara's gentle touch. This suits you, she had said. As if scars were meant for him, as if pain and struggle were his birthright.
When they reached his chambers, Jon secured the door and settled into the chair by his desk, Ghost curling up at his feet. The dragon eggs lay hidden beneath the hearthstone, warm and waiting, and for the first time Jon wondered if their presence in his life was more than mere coincidence.
The blood that flows in your veins, Ashara had said. Older, stronger bloodlines.
Jon stared into the dying fire, purple eyes reflecting the flames, and felt the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders like a cloak. Whatever truth Ashara would reveal in the godswood, Jon sensed it would change everything.
Three Days Later
Three days had passed since Ashara Dayne had slipped back into the shadows of King's Landing, leaving Jon with more questions than answers about his birth and heritage. Three days of careful routine, training in the yard, avoiding certain corridors, and checking over his shoulder for golden hair and emerald eyes.
Jon should have known the queen's patience wouldn't last forever.
The pre-dawn hour found him making his way through the Red Keep's labyrinthine passages, heading for the training yard where he could work through sword forms in blessed solitude. The castle slept around him, save for the occasional guard patrol and the ever-present rats that scurried through the walls. Ghost padded silently beside him, red eyes alert in the dim torchlight.
Jon had chosen this route deliberately—a roundabout path through lesser-used corridors that would keep him away from the royal apartments. He thought he'd been clever, varying his patterns, never taking the same path twice in a row.
He'd underestimated Cersei Lannister.
"Jon Snow."
The voice emerged from an alcove to his left, honey-sweet and familiar. Jon's blood ran cold as Queen Cersei Lannister stepped into the corridor, resplendent in a gown of deep crimson silk that clung to her curves like liquid fire. Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves, and her emerald eyes held the predatory gleam of a lioness who had finally cornered her prey.
Of course, Jon thought grimly. I should have known she'd choose somewhere I couldn't easily escape.
"Your Grace," Jon replied, offering a respectful nod while keeping his distance.
Cersei's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "How formal you've become. Do you remember Winterfell, Jon? When you called me by my name in... more intimate circumstances?"
Jon felt heat rise in his cheeks but kept his expression neutral. "That was before I understood the nature of our relationship, Your Grace."
"The nature of our relationship?" Cersei laughed. "And what nature would that be?"
"You're the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Jon replied carefully. "I'm Lord Stark's bastard. There is no relationship."
Cersei stepped closer, close enough that Jon could smell her perfume—it reminded him of his intimate moments with her. "Is that truly what you think? That those nights meant nothing?"
Jon's jaw tightened. The memories were still vivid—her hands on his skin, the gasps of pleasure, the way she'd made him feel like he was more than just a bastard. But Ashara's words echoed in his mind: Those who profit from lies. Those who fear the return of older bloodlines.
"I think," Jon said slowly, "that I was a useful distraction for Your Grace. Nothing more."
Something flickered across Cersei's face—surprise, perhaps, or disappointment. "You've grown cynical, Jon. King's Landing has that effect on people." She circled him slowly, like a cat stalking a mouse. "But you're wrong about those nights. They were... educational. For both of us."
"Educational how?" Jon asked, though he suspected he didn't want to know the answer.
"I learned that bastards can be surprisingly... gifted. And you learned what real pleasure feels like." Cersei's hand brushed against his arm as she passed behind him. "Tell me, Jon—have you found anyone else who can make you feel the way I did?"
Jon forced himself not to flinch at her touch. "I'm not interested in reliving the past, Your Grace."
"The past?" Cersei laughed again. "Oh, my sweet boy, I'm not talking about the past. I'm talking about the future." She moved to stand directly in front of him, close enough that he could see the golden flecks in her green eyes. "Do you know what I could give you, Jon Snow? What position you could hold if you were... amenable to continuing our arrangement?"
"I can't imagine," Jon replied dryly. "Court jester? Royal food taster?"
Cersei's eyes flashed with annoyance at his sarcasm. "You could be so much more than Ned Stark's forgotten bastard. A position at court, lands of your own, a wife from a noble house—all of it could be yours."
"In exchange for what?" Jon asked, though he already knew.
"Your loyalty. Your discretion." Cersei's voice dropped to a purr. "Your body, when I have need of it."
Jon stepped back, putting distance between them. "You're asking me to be your whore."
"I'm offering to make you a player in the game of thrones instead of a piece to be moved by others." Cersei's tone grew sharp. "Do you think your father will protect you forever? Do you think your sisters are safe simply because they bear the Stark name?"
The mention of his sisters made Jon's blood run cold. "Are you threatening my family?"
"I'm pointing out realities," Cersei replied smoothly. "King's Landing is a dangerous place, Jon. Accidents happen. Young girls can fall from towers, choke on their food, disappear in the night. Especially young girls who make enemies."
Jon felt Ghost press against his leg, the direwolf's presence a comforting reminder that he wasn't completely alone. "Arya and Sansa have done nothing to make enemies."
"Haven't they?" Cersei tilted her head. "Arya humiliated my son in front of the entire court. Sansa... well, Sansa has the misfortune of being your sister. And you, Jon Snow, have made a very powerful enemy indeed."
Meaning you, Jon thought, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "I serve my father and my family. I've done nothing to warrant your enmity."
"You defied me," Cersei hissed, her mask of seduction finally beginning to slip. "I gave you a direct command, and you chose to stand against me in front of the king himself."
"I chose to tell the truth," Jon corrected. "I won't apologize for that."
Cersei's laugh was bitter. "The truth? Oh, Jon, if only you knew how amusing that statement is." She stepped closer again, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you want to know a truth? You're not who you think you are."
Jon's heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to remain calm. "I know exactly who I am."
"Do you?" Cersei's eyes glittered with malicious knowledge. "You think you're Ned Stark's bastard, born of some tavern wench or minor noble's daughter. But you're so much more than that, aren't you?"
Jon felt as if the floor had shifted beneath his feet.
"I see recognition in those purple eyes," Cersei continued, her voice soft as silk and twice as dangerous. "Such an unusual color. Almost... royal, one might say."
"Your Grace." Jon's voice cut across hers like a blade. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I won't be a piece in it."
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "Everyone is a piece in someone's game, Jon. The only question is whether you'll be a king or a pawn."
"Then I choose to be neither," Jon replied firmly. "I choose to serve my family and protect those I love."
"Even if it costs you everything?" Cersei asked. "Even if it costs them everything?"
Jon met her gaze steadily. "Especially then."
For a moment, something like respect flickered across Cersei's features. Then it was gone, replaced by cold fury that made Jon's skin crawl.
"You're making a mistake," she said quietly. "I offered you a chance to rise above your station, to claim power and position. Instead, you choose to remain a bastard, loyal to a man who has lied to you your entire life."
"Lord Stark is my father," Jon said firmly. "He's shown me nothing but kindness."
"Has he?" Cersei laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. "Has he told you about your mother? Has he explained why you look nothing like him or his other children? Has he prepared you for the day when the truth comes to light and half the realm wants you dead simply for existing?"
Jon forced himself not to react, though her words hit uncomfortably close to his own doubts and fears.
"I thought not," Cersei continued, noting his silence. "Ned Stark may be honorable, but he's also a fool. He thinks he can protect you with silence, but some secrets are too large to stay buried forever."
"And you think you'd protect me better?" Jon asked skeptically.
"I think I could make you powerful enough to protect yourself," Cersei replied. "But that offer won't stand forever. Sooner or later, you'll need allies who understand the game you're playing."
"I'm not playing any game."
"You've been playing since the moment you were born," Cersei said softly. "You just don't know the rules yet."
Jon felt Ghost tense beside him, and he placed a calming hand on the direwolf's head. "If that's all, Your Grace, I should return to my duties."
"Oh, it's far from all," Cersei replied, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "You can walk away now, Jon Snow, but this conversation isn't over. You'll find that King's Landing has a way of... clarifying one's priorities."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise," Cersei said, her smile returning. "When your father's honor proves insufficient to protect what you love, when your noble intentions lead to disaster, when you realize that the game is already being played around you whether you participate or not—you'll come to me."
"I won't," Jon said with quiet conviction.
"You will," Cersei replied confidently. "They always do, in the end. Pride is a luxury men can't afford when the lives of those they love hang in the balance."
She stepped closer one final time, rising on her toes to whisper in his ear. "Some secrets are worth killing for, Jon Snow. And some people are willing to kill to keep them. Ask yourself—are you prepared to die for your father's honor? More importantly, are you prepared to let your sisters die for it?"
Jon jerked back as if she'd struck him. "If you harm them—"
"I won't have to," Cersei interrupted, her green eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction. "Others will do it for me. Others who have far more to lose if certain... bloodlines... were to resurface."
With that cryptic warning, she turned and swept away, leaving Jon standing alone in the corridor with his heart racing and his mind spinning. Ghost whined softly, pressing closer to his master's leg.
Jon remained motionless for several minutes, processing what had just occurred. Cersei knew something—more than she should, more than was safe.
Jon touched the scar above his eyebrow, remembering Ashara's gentle words: This suits you. Your mother bore scars too.
Whatever truth awaited him in the godswood, Jon was beginning to suspect it was larger and more dangerous than he had ever imagined.
Some secrets are worth killing for, Cersei had said. Looking at the empty corridor where she had stood, Jon wondered if he was about to become one of them.
Two Days Later
The clash of steel rang across the Red Keep's training yard as Jon Snow worked through his forms, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cool morning air. Two days had passed since his encounter with Queen Cersei, and her cryptic warnings echoed in his mind with each swing of his blade. Tomorrow would bring the tournament's grand melee, and Jon found himself training with an intensity that bordered on desperation.
From the gallery overlooking the yard, Ser Barristan Selmy watched with growing unease. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had served three kings and seen countless warriors train, but something about Jon Snow's movements troubled him in ways he couldn't quite articulate.
It's the way he holds himself, Barristan thought, observing as Jon flowed from one stance to another. And the way he looks, those purple eyes... no, it must be his mother...Ashara must have been his mother.
Jon's sword work was impressive—better than impressive, really. But it wasn't just the skill that caught Barristan's attention. It was the unconscious elegance, the way Jon seemed to dance with his blade rather than simply wield it. The old knight had seen that style before, long ago, in a prince who had one of the best warriors of his generation.
Impossible, Barristan told himself firmly. Jon Snow is Ned Stark's bastard. The resemblance is mere coincidence.
But as Jon pivoted to avoid an imaginary strike, his dark hair catching the light, Barristan felt his breath catch. For just a moment, in profile, the young man looked so much like—
"Quite the swordsman, isn't he?"
Barristan turned to find a young knight beside him, resplendent in green and gold. Ser Loras Tyrell had arrived at the Red Keep the previous evening amid much fanfare. Even now, servants and ladies-in-waiting lingered in the gallery, stealing glances at the famously beautiful knight.
"Indeed," Barristan replied carefully. "Young Snow has natural talent."
Loras's brown eyes sparkled with interest as he watched Jon complete his practice routine. "I've heard stories about him. They say he fought Ser Jaime Lannister to a draw at Winterfell."
"Not quite a draw," Barristan corrected. "But he acquitted himself well against one of the finest swords in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Impressive for a bastard," Loras mused, then caught himself. "I mean no offense, of course. It's just unusual to see such skill in someone of his status."
Barristan studied the young Tyrell knight. Loras was known throughout the realm for his prowess and his beauty, but also for his sharp wit and political acumen. The Tyrells didn't send their golden son to tournaments without purpose.
"Perhaps you should introduce yourself," Barristan suggested. "I suspect you and Snow would have much to discuss about swordplay."
Jon was toweling sweat from his face when the two knights approached. He straightened immediately, recognizing Ser Barristan despite his casual training clothes.
"Ser Barristan," Jon said with a respectful nod.
"Jon," the old knight replied warmly. "Allow me to present Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden. Ser Loras, this is Jon Snow."
Loras stepped forward with a smile that had charmed half the noble ladies in Westeros. "The pleasure is mine, Jon Snow. I've been eager to meet you."
Jon accepted the offered hand, noting Loras's firm grip and the calluses that marked a serious warrior despite his pretty face. "Ser Loras. Your reputation precedes you."
"As does yours, apparently," Loras replied with a grin. "Though I must say, the stories don't mention how..." He paused, his gaze taking in Jon's features with obvious appreciation.
"How what?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.
"How young you are," Loras finished smoothly, though his slight smile suggested that wasn't what he'd originally intended to say.
Jon's lips quirked upward. "Old enough to hold a sword, Ser Loras."
"Indeed." Loras glanced around the training yard, where several other knights were practicing with varying degrees of skill. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a friendly bout? I find it's always wise to take the measure of one's competition before a tournament."
"Competition?" Jon asked dryly. "I thought you were here for the glory and the flowers thrown by admiring ladies."
Loras laughed, a genuine sound that carried across the yard. "Very well, Jon Snow—shall we see if your blade is as sharp as your tongue?"
They selected practice swords from the rack, testing the weight and balance. Around them, other training sessions gradually slowed as word spread that the Knight of Flowers was about to spar with Ned Stark's bastard. The same bastard who was able to fight to a draw with Ser Jaime Lannister in Winterfell.
"Rules?" Loras asked as they faced each other in the center of the yard.
"First blood or yield," Jon replied, settling into his stance.
Loras nodded, his own posture fluid and relaxed. "Begin when ready."
They circled each other slowly, each taking the other's measure. Jon noted the way Loras moved—light on his feet, sword held with casual expertise. This was no pampered lordling playing at warrior.
Loras struck first, a probing thrust that Jon deflected easily. The Tyrell knight followed up with a quick combination of cuts that tested Jon's defenses without fully committing to the attack.
"Testing the waters?" Jon asked as they reset.
"Learning the rhythm," Loras replied with a slight smile. "You're faster than I expected."
"And you're more cautious than your reputation suggests."
Their next exchange was more intense, steel ringing against steel as they worked through increasingly complex sequences. Jon found himself impressed by Loras's technique—the knight fought with a style that emphasized speed and precision over brute force, much like Jon's own approach.
From the growing crowd of spectators, Ser Barristan watched with troubled fascination. Jon's movements were even more striking when contrasted against an opponent of Loras's caliber.
Like watching a ghost, Barristan thought, memories of silver-haired princes and long-dead tournaments flooding his mind.
"Excellent form," Loras commented as they paused to catch their breath. "Who trained you?"
"Ser Rodrik Cassel, master-at-arms at Winterfell," Jon replied. "Though I suspect I learned as much from watching my father and brothers."
"Natural talent, then," Loras mused. "The best kind." He reset his stance. "Shall we continue?"
Their next bout drew gasps from the watching crowd. Jon's northern style clashed beautifully with Loras's southern technique, creating a display that was as much art as combat.
"Seven hells," someone muttered from the gallery. "They're both magnificent."
Loras pressed an aggressive series of attacks that forced Jon to give ground, but the bastard responded with a lightning-fast riposte that came within inches of Loras's throat.
"Yield," Loras called, breathing hard but grinning widely. "That would have opened my neck quite nicely."
Jon lowered his sword, equally winded but exhilarated. "Good fight, Ser Loras."
"Indeed it was." Loras clasped Jon's shoulder in a gesture of genuine respect. "I begin to understand why Ser Jaime speaks of you with such... intensity."
Jon's expression darkened slightly. "He's mentioned me?"
"Oh yes," Loras said with evident amusement. "Quite colorfully, in fact. Something about northern bastards with more luck than sense." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Though between us, I think you wounded more than his sword arm in whatever encounter you two had."
"His pride, perhaps," Jon replied with a slight smile.
"A dangerous thing to wound in a Lannister," Loras observed. "But then, you northern folk seem to specialize in dangerous choices."
"Speaking of dangerous choices," Jon said, glancing around at the dispersing crowd, "entering tomorrow's melee seems particularly unwise for someone with a reputation for beauty over brutality."
Loras's grin turned predatory. "Careful, Jon Snow. You're beginning to sound like those who think a pretty face can't hide a warrior's heart."
"I'm beginning to think a warrior's heart might be hiding behind that pretty face," Jon corrected.
"Flatterer," Loras said with mock severity. "Though I appreciate the sentiment. Tell me, what do you make of our competition tomorrow?"
Jon considered the question seriously. "The Hound will be formidable—he's strong and experienced. Ser Gregor..." Jon's voice trailed off as he remembered Ser Barristan's warnings about the Mountain.
"You've heard the stories about the Mountain, then," Loras said quietly.
"Enough to know he's more dangerous than skilled," Jon replied. "Brute strength and a willingness to kill."
"Precisely why tournaments can be more perilous than actual battles," Ser Barristan interjected, joining their conversation. "In war, at least your enemies are supposed to try to kill you."
Both young men turned to face the elderly knight, whose expression had grown serious.
"Ser Barristan," Loras said respectfully. "Your counsel is always welcome."
"Then heed this advice," Barristan replied gravely. "In tomorrow's melee, stay away from Ser Gregor Clegane. Both of you. The Mountain has killed before in tournaments, and he may well kill again."
Jon felt a chill run down his spine. "Deliberately?"
"Accidents happen in melees," Barristan said carefully. "But some accidents are more convenient than others."
Loras frowned. "Are you suggesting—"
"I'm suggesting that young knights with bright futures should be cautious of older warriors with dark reputations," Barristan interrupted.
"Well then," Loras said with forced cheer, "I suppose we'll simply have to watch each other's backs tomorrow. Northern brooding and southern charm against the Mountain's brutality."
"Northern brooding?" Jon asked with raised eyebrows.
"Oh yes," Loras grinned. "You have the look down perfectly—that mysterious, tormented air that drives the ladies wild. Very effective, I'm sure."
"About as effective as your southern charm and flower petals," Jon replied dryly.
"My flower petals have won me three tournaments and the favor of more ladies than I can count," Loras protested with mock indignation.
"And how many of those victories came against opponents who were distracted by your devastating beauty?" Jon asked innocently.
Loras burst into laughter. "You wound me, Jon Snow! Here I thought we were becoming friends."
"We are," Jon said with a slight smile. "That's why I feel comfortable mocking your vanity."
"Mock my vanity all you like," Loras replied, his brown eyes dancing with mirth. "But don't underestimate the power of a pretty face in the right circumstances."
Cersei Lannister
The chamber lay deep within the Red Keep's oldest foundations, where the stones themselves seemed to swallow sound and light. Torches burned fitfully in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that made the rough-hewn walls appear to breathe. It was here, in this forgotten corner of Maegor's Holdfast, that the most dangerous conversations took place—far from prying ears and curious eyes.
Queen Cersei Lannister waited in the flickering gloom, her crimson gown a splash of blood against the gray stone. The heavy purse in her hands clinked softly as she shifted it from palm to palm.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond, each one a small earthquake that seemed to shake dust from the ancient ceiling. The door opened with a groan of protesting hinges, and Ser Gregor Clegane filled the doorway like a mountain of flesh and steel.
The Mountain had to duck to enter the chamber, his massive frame making the spacious room feel suddenly cramped. Even without his armor, he was an intimidating sight—nearly eight feet of muscle and bone wrapped in black leather, his scarred face a map of violence that made strong men look away. In the dim torchlight, he resembled some creature from the deepest hells more than a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
"Your Grace," he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together.
Cersei smiled, though the expression held no warmth. "Ser Gregor. Punctual as always."
She tossed the purse to him, and despite its considerable weight, the Mountain caught it one-handed without effort. The gold clinked heavily as he tested its contents.
"The usual arrangement," Cersei said, settling gracefully into a chair that had been placed for her comfort. "Though I trust this will be more... subtle than some of your previous endeavors."
Ser Gregor said nothing, but his small, dark eyes fixed on the queen with the patience of a predator. Words were not his forte; violence was his language, and he spoke it fluently.
"Tomorrow's melee will be... eventful," Cersei continued, her tone conversational despite the subject matter. "So many participants, so much chaos. Accidents are inevitable in such circumstances, wouldn't you agree?"
The Mountain's massive head nodded once, barely perceptible in the shadows.
"There is one competitor in particular who has been making quite the impression in the training yards," Cersei went on, examining her perfectly manicured nails in the torchlight. "Young, skilled, popular among the smallfolk. The sort who draws attention."
She paused, letting the implications hang in the air like smoke.
"This individual's continued... prominence... has become something of a concern for certain interested parties. People of importance, you understand. People who value discretion and... permanence... in their solutions to problems."
"However," Cersei continued, her voice taking on a sharper edge, "elimination is not the objective. Not yet, at least. This person must be... humbled. Reminded of their mortality. A lesson in the dangers of standing too tall, of drawing too much attention."
The queen rose from her chair, moving closer to the Mountain. Even standing, she barely reached his chest, but there was no fear in her approach.
"A broken bone or two should suffice," she said quietly. "Something that will keep them bedridden for weeks, unable to participate in... future activities. An injury that appears entirely accidental, of course. The sort of mishap that occurs when an inexperienced fighter faces a warrior of your... caliber."
Ser Gregor's lips pulled back in what might have been a smile, revealing teeth like yellowed tombstones.
"The target has made enemies," Cersei added, as if this detail were merely an afterthought. "Enemies who would not mourn if permanent harm were to befall them. But for now, incapacitation will serve our purposes adequately."
She reached into her gown and produced a second, smaller purse. "This is merely the beginning, Ser Gregor. Complete this task to my satisfaction, and there will be more gold. Much more. And perhaps... opportunities for greater permanence in the future."
The Mountain's massive hand engulfed the second purse, making it disappear into his leather jerkin.
"You understand what is required?" Cersei asked, though it was more statement than question.
Another barely perceptible nod.
"Excellent." Cersei's smile returned, cold as winter wind. "The melee begins at noon. I trust you will find the appropriate moment to... demonstrate your skills."
She turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Oh, and Ser Gregor? Should anyone ask about our conversation, I trust you'll remember that it never occurred."
The Mountain's silence was answer enough.
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