Jon had never seen his father look as scared as he did right now.
Ned Stark stood frozen in the doorway, his grey eyes locked on the small red black dragon perched at the foot of Jon's bed. RedHeart tilted her head, studying this new human with golden eyes that gleamed like molten coins. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils, and her tail swished back and forth across the wooden floor with a soft scraping sound.
"Father, I can explain—" Jon began, but Ned cut him off.
"She needs to leave," Ned said, his voice rough and urgent. "Right now."
Jon felt his heart sink. "Father, please. Just listen—"
"No." Ned took a step forward, his hand reaching for the door behind him as if to ensure it was still locked. "Jon, if Robert finds out about this... if anyone finds out about this..." He stopped, running a hand through his dark hair. "He will have our heads. All of our heads."
"RedHeart hasn't harmed anyone," Jon said quickly, desperately. "She's small. She's harmless. She—"
"Harmless?" Ned's voice rose slightly before he caught himself, glancing at the door. When he spoke again, it was quieter but no less intense. "Jon, I know you to be a smart boy. Don't stop being one now."
Jon knew he was being naive. Harmless won't work as an excuse against a King who was known to hate anything to do with House Targaryen.
"A dragon," Ned continued, gesturing at RedHeart, "is a symbol of House Targaryen. Do you understand what that means? What it represents?" He took another step closer, his grey eyes boring into Jon's purple ones. "That creature might be mostly harmless now, yes. But what about a year from now? Ten years from now? Dragons grow, Jon. They grow large. They grow dangerous. They conquered Westeros."
"I can control her," Jon said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew how weak they sounded.
Ned shook his head. "You can control her now, perhaps. But eventually..." He trailed off, looking at the dragon with something that might have been sorrow. "It is a miracle that her existence is still a secret. But I will not keep her around any longer. Her very existence is a danger to all of us—not just you, not just Arya, not just Sansa, not just those of us in this tower. She is a danger to House Stark itself."
Jon's throat tightened. "What... what are you going to do?"
Ned met his gaze, and Jon saw the answer there before his father spoke. "She must be killed, Jon."
Jon felt his heart freeze in his chest, and it felt like a whole just opened at the bottom of his stomach; he felt cold.
RedHeart hissed suddenly, a sharp sound that made Arya jump by the window. The dragon's scales seemed to darken, the red veins along her wings pulsing brighter. Smoke poured from her nostrils in thick grey clouds, and she turned her golden eyes on Ned with hostility.
Jon moved without thinking. Despite the lance of pain that shot through his ribs and shoulder, he pushed himself to his feet and placed himself between the dragon and his father. His vision swam for a moment, but he forced himself to remain standing.
"No," he said firmly. "I won't let you hurt her."
"Jon—"
"She's like Ghost," Jon continued, his voice gaining strength. "She chose me. She bonded with me. I won't abandon her."
"A dragon is not the sigil of your house," Ned said, his own voice hardening, reminding Jon of the words he told him that day when they found the direwolf pups in the snow. "It is a direwolf. And that dragon endangers all of us." He took a step forward, his face etched with a pain that Jon had rarely seen. "Tell me, Jon. Is RedHeart's life more important than Arya's? More important than yours? More important than Sansa's? Than Robb's? Than Rickon's and Bran's back in Winterfell?"
Jon did not say anything.
"If Robert learns the truth," Ned pressed on, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "he will have us all killed for treason. And when that happens, Robb will want to avenge us. Which will lead to a pointless war. Our entire family will rot in the ground because you want to keep your dragon."
Jon felt tears prick at his eyes. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "There has to be another way," he said, his voice cracking. "She doesn't have to suffer for being born in the wrong place."
Ned let out a sigh, but his expression remained the same. He looked regretful, but the decision was made. "I have already decided. I will make it quick. She will not suffer."
He moved forward, reaching for the blade at his hip.
Ghost was on his feet in an instant. The massive direwolf positioned himself between Ned and the bed, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl. His red eyes fixed on the Lord of Winterfell, and a low growl rumbled from his chest—a sound Jon had never heard Ghost make at his father before.
At the same moment, RedHeart opened her jaws.
A burst of crimson flame erupted from the dragon's mouth, no larger than a candle's flare but unmistakably fire. The room suddenly felt much warmer. The flames licked toward the ceiling before dissipating.
Ned backed away a step, his hand leaving his sword hilt. For a moment, he simply stared at the small dragon who had just breathed fire in his presence. But Jon could see it in his father's eyes—he was not afraid. Cautious, yes. Shocked, perhaps. But not afraid.
"Father, please—" Jon tried to say...
"We can hide her," Arya said suddenly from her position by the window. Both Jon and Ned turned to look at her. "In the cellar of the Red Keep. Where they keep the dragon skulls."
Jon felt a flicker of hope.
Arya continued quickly, "There's plenty of space down there, and rarely anyone goes there. It's mostly a tomb. We could keep RedHeart there until we leave for White Harbor."
"That's..." Jon started, but Ned was already shaking his head.
"No," their father said firmly. "Arya, there are guards, servants, lords walking around this keep at all hours. How would you get the dragon down there without being noticed?" He gestured at RedHeart, who was still eyeing him with suspicion. "Dragons make noise. They are unpredictable. Someone will see her or hear her."
"We could do it at night," Jon said quickly. "When everyone is mostly sleeping. There are only guards during that time."
"And if she makes a sound?" Ned countered. "If she decides to breathe fire at the wrong moment? If a guard sees you?"
"She won't," Jon said, though he wasn't entirely certain. "I can keep her calm. I can—"
"Arya," Ned interrupted, turning to his daughter. "Do you even know where this cellar is? How to get there?"
Arya nodded eagerly. "Yes! I went down there a few times while chasing cats. There's a stairway that leads down from the east corridor, past the kitchens. I know the way."
"You can carry the dragon there?" Ned asked skeptically.
Jon shook his head before Arya could answer. "No. RedHeart won't let Arya carry her that far."
"Then what do you suggest?" Ned asked, and there was a hint of exasperation in his voice now.
"I have to be there too," Jon said. "In case RedHeart gets agitated. If I'm with her, she'll stay calm."
"You can hardly walk," Ned pointed out, gesturing at Jon's bandaged torso. "You could barely stand just now."
"I'm not as bad as I used to be," Jon argued, even though his ribs were screaming at him to sit back down. "And this is the only way. RedHeart needs to stay quiet during the journey. She won't do that unless I'm there."
Ned stared at his son for a long moment. Jon could see the war playing out behind his father's grey eyes—the desire to protect his family warring with the terrible risk of what they were proposing. Finally, Ned let out a long, weary sigh.
"This will be done tonight," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. "After midnight, when the castle is asleep." He moved to the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. "Jory is someone I trust completely. I will have him guard you both and make sure nothing goes wrong. If you are seen, if anything happens..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to.
"Thank you, Father," Jon said quietly.
Ned didn't respond. He simply opened the door and left, closing it behind him with a soft click that sounded somehow final.
The room fell into silence.
Jon sank back onto the bed, his legs suddenly unable to support him any longer. RedHeart immediately crawled into his lap, curling up against his chest. Her heat seeped into his bones, easing some of the pain from his outburst.
"That was close," Arya said from the window. "I thought he was going to..."
"I know," Jon said. He stroked RedHeart's scaled head, feeling her purr against his palm. "So did I."
Ghost padded over and rested his massive head on Jon's knee, as if seeking reassurance. Jon placed his free hand on the direwolf's head.
"Tonight," he murmured, more to himself than to Arya or the animals. "We just have to make it through tonight."
RedHeart chirped softly, and a small puff of smoke escaped her nostrils. Jon looked down at her golden eyes and saw his own determination reflected there.
They would make it through tonight. They had to.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
Cersei Lannister
The summons came at midday, delivered by a servant who wouldn't meet the Queen's eyes. Just four words on parchment in Tywin's precise hand: Come to me. Now.
Cersei knew what it meant. She'd been expecting it since the moment they carried that bastard off the tournament field with the Mountain's blood on his hands. Still, her heart quickened as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep toward her father's temporary chambers. Not fear—she was a lioness, and lionesses did not fear—but anticipation. Tywin Lannister's disappointment was a weapon he wielded, and she had given him fresh ammunition.
The guards outside his door stepped aside without a word. She entered to find her father standing by the window, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. He wore a crimson doublet with golden threading, the lion of Lannister emblazoned across his shoulders. Even in stillness, he radiated authority that Robert could never hope to match.
"Close the door," he said without turning.
Cersei did as commanded, the heavy oak thudding shut behind her. The sound echoed in the stone chamber like a judge's gavel.
"Father, I—"
"Do you know what Gregor Clegane told me this morning?" Tywin's voice was calm, conversational even. That was when he was most dangerous. "Through gritted teeth and more milk of the poppy than any three men should consume, he confessed something quite interesting."
He turned to face her then, and she met his green eyes—so like her own, so like Jaime's—without flinching.
"He said you came to him before the melee. That you paid him gold. That you gave him specific instructions regarding a certain northern boy."
Cersei's throat tightened, but she kept her expression smooth. "I don't know what lies that brute has been—"
"Don't." The single word cracked like a whip. "Do not insult my intelligence by lying to me, Cersei. I have had quite enough of being surrounded by fools and liars. I will not tolerate it from my own daughter."
She lifted her chin. "Then you know why I did it."
"Do I?" Tywin's eyebrow arched. "Enlighten me. Why did the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms feel the need to have Eddard Stark's bastard boy murdered in front of thousands of witnesses at a royal tournament?"
"He humiliated Joffrey," Cersei said, her anger rising like a true lion of House Lannister. "At the Trident. That wild girl Arya and the butcher's boy attacked your grandson, and when I asked Jon Snow to tell the truth, to support Joffrey's version of events, he refused. He chose the Stark girl over his own interests. Over my son."
Tywin's expression didn't change. "And so you decided the appropriate response was to have the Mountain crush him like a bug in the middle of a melee?"
"I wanted to teach him a lesson. I wanted—"
"You wanted to indulge your wounded pride," Tywin cut in, sounding disappointed, and Cersei felt her anger rise more. "You let emotion override sense. You acted like a petulant child instead of a queen."
Heat flushed through Cersei. "I am the Queen. I don't have to—"
"You are my daughter," Tywin interrupted, his voice hardening. "And as my daughter, you should understand one fundamental truth that apparently escaped your notice." He moved closer, each word deliberate. "Family. Family is always more important."
Cersei stared at him. "But the boy chose—"
"The boy did exactly what he should have done," Tywin said flatly. "He protected his family. His sister. Whatever you asked him to do, whatever leverage you thought you had, he put his blood first." His eyes bored into hers. "As any true Lannister would."
The implication stung more than Cersei wanted to admit.
"You should never have tried such manipulation with a boy you hardly know," Tywin continued, his eyes made her feel small. "You might be queen, but you seem to have forgotten the lessons I taught you. Trust is not given freely. Loyalty cannot be bought in a single conversation. And enemies..." He paused, looking at her with something approaching pity. "Enemies should be dealt with subtly."
"I was being subtle," Cersei protested. "The Mountain has killed in tournaments before. No one would have—"
"Subtle?" Tywin almost laughed. "You call unleashing Gregor Clegane subtle? You might as well have hired a mummer to stand in the middle of the tourney grounds shouting 'The Queen wants this boy dead!' It would have been equally discreet."
Cersei's hands clenched at her sides. "It would have worked if Gregor hadn't been incompetent."
"Incompetent?" Tywin's voice rose for the first time. "Gregor Clegane is a brute, a mad dog on a chain, but he has never failed to kill what I point him at. Do you know why? Because I use him properly. Quietly. In places where bodies don't matter and witnesses are killed." He stepped closer, his voice dropping again. "Not in front of the King of the Seven Kingdoms and half the lords of Westeros."
Cersei wanted to defend herself, to explain that the boy needed to be dealt with, that his very existence was dangerous in ways her father couldn't understand. But she couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't tell him that he was Rhaegar's son. She couldn't confess that she'd brought the boy south, hoping to possess that ghost, and when he had rejected her, she had felt humiliated, the same boy who made her scream with pleasure, he had betrayed her trust. He was nothing without her; if she had not wanted him south, he would be at the Wall right now, freezing his balls off. Instead, despite everything she did for him, he betrayed her trust.
Tywin would never understand. He would call it weakness. Sentiment. Everything a Lannister should despise.
"Because of your stupidity," Tywin continued, his words like hammer blows, "Gregor Clegane no longer has an eye. My most feared bannerman, the man whose very name makes lesser lords think twice, is now half-blind and howling in pain like a wounded bear."
"He'll heal," Cersei said, though she didn't particularly care if the Mountain suffered.
"Will he?" Tywin moved to his desk and picked up a piece of parchment. "Maester Pycelle sent me this assessment this morning. The knife Jon Snow used went deep into Gregor's eye socket. Very deep. Pycelle worries the infection may spread to his other eye. He fears Gregor may go completely blind."
Cersei felt satisfaction; it felt good. If the Mountain went blind, that would be justice for his failure.
Tywin wasn't finished. "You know that Gregor uses milk of the poppy constantly for his headaches. Since losing the eye, his pain has become unbearable. He's consuming enough of the substance to kill a normal man. And Pycelle..." He set down the parchment. "Pycelle has confessed to me that he fears for his own life when treating Gregor. The man is becoming uncontrollable."
"Then execute him," Cersei said coldly. "Find another mad dog to replace him."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "You understand nothing. Gregor Clegane is useful precisely because he is mad. Because he inspires fear. But a blind, pain-maddened Gregor is a liability. And we have precious few bannermen who can match his... particular talents."
"What will you do?" Cersei asked after a moment. "To avenge Gregor?"
"That is up to me to decide. Not you."
"But surely we cannot let this insult stand," she pressed. "The boy humiliated House Lannister in front of—"
"The boy defended himself in a sanctioned melee," Tywin cut in. "There is no insult to avenge. Not publicly, at least." His eyes fixed on her, and she felt small; she felt like a little girl again. "What there is, daughter, is a mess of your making that I must now clean up."
"I can—"
"You will do nothing," Tywin said, and his voice held the tone of absolute command. "Do you understand me? Nothing. Leave the boy to me. You have done quite enough damage."
The words were a slap. Her father had always underestimated her. He had never thought of her as his true heir, had never seen in her what he saw in Jaime. She was a womb, to be married off and used to forge alliances. Even as queen, even as the mother of the future king, she was still just Cersei to him—the daughter who should have been a son.
But she had learned to hide her feelings behind the mask of a dutiful child. So she nodded, lowering her eyes in what he would take for submission.
"Yes, Father," she said.
"Good," Tywin said. "You may go."
Cersei left the chamber, closing the door softly behind her. The guards didn't look at her as she passed.
Her father wanted her to leave the boy to him? Very well. She would obey. For now.
But Tywin Lannister wasn't the only lion with claws.
She was a lioness herself.