At that very moment, inside the Throne Room of King's Landing, the victors of the palace coup had gathered. The mood was tense as they questioned the battered survivors of the Gold Cloaks who had just fled back from the battlefield outside the city.
"You're telling me a bastard—just one bastard—defeated over two hundred cavalrymen?"
Cersei Lannister laughed incredulously and shook her head.
"Seven hells, is this some sort of jesting festival today? You expect me to believe a single bastard boy wiped out two hundred armed riders? What's next—Ser Arthur Dayne risen from the grave?"
"He's not Arthur Dayne, Your Grace,"
rumbled a voice from the front of the group.
It was Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. Or what was left of him. Gone was the usual swagger and cruelty—his face was pale, his eyes haunted. One arm hung uselessly at his chest, crudely wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.
He cast a strange look toward Jaime Lannister before saying hoarsely:
"I fought Ser Arthur Dayne once. I can tell you with absolute certainty… that bastard Jon Snow could take a piss with his right hand while cutting Arthur Dayne in half with his left."
Jaime blinked, startled—and more than a little offended that Gregor had twisted his favorite line into this morbid comparison.
"You mean to say even Ser Arthur Dayne—the greatest swordsman who ever lived—was no match for him?"
"Arthur Dayne was a man, Ser," Gregor replied, shaking his massive head. "That thing… that Jon Snow… isn't. I don't know what he is—but he sure as the Seven isn't human."
At those words, the other survivors began to tremble. The memory of that nightmare scene flashed before their eyes again, and they started muttering frantically—"Demon!" "Monster!" "Devilspawn!"
Their terror was so raw that even the hardened nobles present felt a chill run down their spines.
Well—everyone except Joffrey Baratheon.
The spoiled boy-king's face twisted in anger. Seeing his city guards cower and babble like frightened children made his blood boil.
He slammed a hand down on the armrest of the Iron Throne, voice shrill with fury:
"Enough! You worthless cowards disgrace the crown! You dare babble excuses before your king? I'll have every one of you hanged—hanged, do you hear me?!"
"Easy now, dear nephew," drawled Tyrion Lannister, clearly unimpressed. "Now's not the time for tantrums and executions."
He gave Joffrey a look of weary disdain before turning to the others.
"Whatever happened out there, it's clear that Eddard Stark has escaped. Which means he'll be marching north to rally his banners—and when he does, the North will come south for vengeance. We'd best prepare."
"We still have Sansa Stark," Cersei interjected, forcing calm into her tone. "She's our hostage. That's our leverage."
"Yes, one hostage left," Tyrion said dryly, lips curling. "There were supposed to be three. Now there's only one. My dear sister, you might just be our family's biggest disappointment."
"Enough, both of you," Jaime cut in quickly, stepping between them before their familiar bickering could explode again. "We can't afford to fight each other. The Starks aren't our only enemies—Renly Baratheon's fled too, and he won't stay quiet for long."
"And Stannis," Tyrion added. "The Lord of Dragonstone's always been ambitious. He believes he's the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
Ignoring Joffrey's sputtering tirade about "traitors and usurpers," Tyrion continued more seriously:
"A two-front war would doom us. We'll need to settle one side diplomatically if we can. There's no reasoning with the Baratheons—but the Starks… perhaps. Depends on how much that girl, Sansa, matters to her father."
He squinted suspiciously.
"Speaking of which—you are keeping a close eye on her, I trust? We can't afford another hostage vanishing in the night."
"The Hound himself guards her," Cersei replied sharply. "No one gets near the girl unless I say so."
She turned her gaze toward Varys, who stood silently at the edge of the hall.
"What about the derelict guards? Have they been interrogated?"
"The questioning continues, Your Grace," the Spider answered smoothly. "According to the confessions so far, they don't even understand what happened. They just… felt it was right to let him pass, and so they did."
"Marvelous," Tyrion muttered, rolling his eyes. "At this point, I'm convinced Jon Snow isn't human either. Gods, I wish I had that trick—I could make everyone believe I'm taller."
Cersei glared at him in disgust, but before anyone could reply, a sudden commotion rose from outside the doors.
Then—bang!—the heavy throne room doors swung open.
A panting Gold Cloak stumbled in, eyes wide with panic.
"Your Graces! Outside… there's… there's—"
"Spit it out, you idiot!" Cersei snapped, her composure finally cracking. "What is it now?"
"Allow me to explain, my beautiful queen."
A smooth, almost playful voice drifted into the hall.
Every head turned as Aedric stepped casually through the doorway, flanked by dozens of tense Gold Cloaks—none of whom dared lift a hand against him.
And in his grasp—trembling, pale, and terrified—was a young blonde girl in a silken gown.
Princess Myrcella Baratheon.
Cersei and Jaime froze.
Aedric gave them a lazy smile, as if strolling into a tea party rather than the most dangerous room in Westeros.
It had been a stroke of luck, really. Months ago, while refining his Shapeshifter ability, Aedric had once projected his consciousness into a bird and circled the Red Keep. He'd mapped the locations of several key figures' chambers—including that of the golden-haired princess.
He'd never dared send his awareness deeper into the castle, though. Too much risk of being shot down—and if the host body died while his spirit was inside it, the backlash could injure his real body severely.
Besides, during projection, his true body lay completely defenseless. So he had kept each attempt brief and cautious.
That was why, even though he didn't yet know exactly where Sansa Stark was being held—and certainly didn't have time to search hundreds of rooms—capturing this royal girl gave him something far more valuable: bargaining power.
As for how he'd reached her tower, perched a hundred meters above ground?
Well, that was child's play.
The Wall-Climbing Technique from the Nine Yang Divine Art made scaling even polished metal surfaces effortless. The rough stone walls of the Red Keep were practically a staircase.
And so, as the shocked nobles gaped in silence, Aedric stood calmly in the throne room—his left hand resting lightly on his sword, his right hand gripping the arm of a trembling golden-haired princess—smiling like a wolf who had just walked into a den full of sheep.
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