Joffrey Baratheon was nothing more than a spoiled bully—a coward who preyed on the weak and crumbled before the strong.
Faced with the real threat of death, he began to tremble uncontrollably, screaming in panic.
The noise grated on Aedric's nerves.
With a sigh, he simply raised his hand and smacked the boy across the face, knocking him out cold.
Much better.
After all, Joffrey wasn't the one really in charge here—he was just a glorified mascot.
Clink.
As the unconscious "king" slumped sideways on the Iron Throne, something fell from his robes. Aedric glanced down, mildly surprised—it was the Valyrian steel dagger, the one that had once held such symbolic weight in the story.
Ah. So that's where it ended up. Figures.
He picked it up and tucked it into his coat.
Then, looking down at the stunned crowd, he smiled pleasantly.
"Well, now that my hostage just got upgraded, shall we begin the trade?"
The audience, still reeling from his earlier display of impossible speed and power, took an instinctive step back.
After a tense silence, Cersei—driven by a mother's fear—finally broke.
"Don't hurt my son," she said through gritted teeth. "You can have the girl—Sansa—for him."
"See? That wasn't so hard."
Aedric's tone was light, almost cheerful. He sheathed his sword and began to descend from the dais as though the entire hall weren't filled with trembling guards and nobles.
That simple act of lowering his weapon made several of the gathered schemers exchange glances.
Could it be… he's just as naïve as Ned Stark?
The thought took root immediately. A dozen calculations spun behind calm eyes.
To them, raw strength was terrifying, yes—but stupidity was exploitable.
If this northern bastard was the kind to trust people easily, then perhaps there was still a way to turn things around.
Aedric stopped halfway down the steps and glanced back at them, smiling faintly.
"You're all giving me that look," he said. "Did I not make myself clear enough just now?"
Then, his voice cooled.
"Let's be honest. I don't care whether you keep your word. I don't care what tricks you try to play next. Because even if you call every soldier in this city to stop me, the worst you can do is keep me from taking Sansa right away."
He let that sink in before continuing.
"But if I decide to leave, no one in this city—no, in all the Seven Kingdoms—can stop me."
The words were calm, but their weight fell like hammer blows.
"So let me make something perfectly clear," he said. "If you break your promise—if I don't walk out of here with Sansa Stark alive and unharmed—then every last one of you should start preparing for the rest of your lives to be a living nightmare."
His gaze locked onto the twins before him.
"Especially you—the Lannisters."
He stepped forward slowly, closing the distance between them.
Jaime's sword came up reflexively—but Aedric didn't even glance at it.
"I will kill every Lannister," he said quietly.
"Every single one. Your brothers. Your father. Your cousins. Every relative who bears the lion sigil."
"I will wipe the name Lannister from the face of Westeros, just as thoroughly as the Targaryens were erased."
"Don't doubt my resolve," he added, voice low and cold. "And don't doubt my ability. I'm barely out of my teens—I've got decades ahead of me to hunt you all down, one by one."
His tone was almost conversational when he finished:
"Your house words are 'A Lannister always pays his debts.'"
He smiled.
"Mine are: If you don't offend me, I won't offend you. But if you do… I'll rip you out by the roots."
Without warning, he reached out, grabbed the tip of Jaime's drawn sword between two fingers—and snapped it clean off.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled the broken piece behind him.
It struck the Iron Throne's backrest with a metallic clang, embedding itself mere inches from Joffrey's unconscious head.
Ser Barristan Selmy, who had been inching forward to spirit the boy away, froze mid-step, then stumbled backward in shock.
"No sneaking around behind me," Aedric said lazily, not even turning his head. "My ears are very sharp."
A smirk.
"But if you'd like to see what your precious king looks like full of holes, Ser Barristan the Bold, by all means—keep trying."
The old knight's face went pale as chalk. No one else dared move.
Turning away from the paralyzed crowd, Aedric walked up to Myrcella, whose trembling was now barely under control.
He softened his tone.
"None of that applies to you, Princess Myrcella Baratheon. I'm sorry you got caught up in this mess."
She hesitated, eyes glistening.
"...Will you kill my mother?" she whispered.
Aedric met her gaze, unflinching.
"If she breaks her word… yes."
He gently brushed away a tear from her cheek and shrugged lightly.
"But I've given her a choice, haven't I? Everyone has to take responsibility for the path they choose."
"Even if you have to crawl," he added softly, "you finish the road you start."
Myrcella took a trembling breath.
"Then… then kill me too."
Aedric smiled faintly.
"I won't kill you, Princess. You're a Baratheon, after all."
"I'm not—"
"Shh."
He pressed a finger gently to her lips.
"You are a Baratheon," he said quietly. "Whatever that wretched brother of yours is, you—and your younger brother Tommen—you're different. You are Baratheons. I believe that."
Cersei's eyes flickered with sudden realization. There was something in his tone—something she could use.
After a moment of thought, she asked carefully:
"Jon Snow… what do you think of Robert?"
"I look at him with my eyes, of course. How else?"
The flippant modern joke meant nothing to them, leaving everyone in the hall staring in blank confusion. Aedric coughed awkwardly and waved a hand.
"Let's just say I don't think much of that drunken sow. He never gave me a thing—no lands, no title, nothing. Why should I risk my life for him? He's got nothing to do with me."
Cersei exchanged a sharp glance with Jaime. There was something in those words—something useful.
"But your father was close to Robert," she pressed. "He mourns his death deeply, doesn't he?"
"Maybe," Aedric said with a shrug. "But the man's dead. Dead men don't hand out rewards or titles. Whatever friendship my father had with him died along with him."
"And if my father were to rally the North for vengeance, the other lords wouldn't stand behind him—not for long. There's nothing to gain. No land, no power, no benefit."
He looked her in the eye.
"Not everyone values honor above all else, Your Grace."
Cersei understood instantly.
Smart men spoke in hints; smart women heard them.
She inhaled slowly, then asked her final question.
"If I return Sansa Stark to her family… will Eddard Stark call off his army?"
Aedric smiled faintly.
"How would I know? I'm not my father."
Then, with a lazy shrug:
"But I certainly wouldn't risk my life for some stranger. There's no profit in that."
Cersei fell silent—but her mind was racing.
She understood now that this "bastard" was no simple pawn. After today, Jon Snow—this Jon Snow—would become one of the most dangerous and influential men in the North. Even Eddard Stark himself would have to listen to his counsel.
Aedric saw the flicker of calculation in her eyes and smiled.
"I think we've talked enough, don't you, Your Grace?"
His tone was calm, but the chill in it was unmistakable.
"Now it's your turn to make a choice:
Will you bring me Sansa Stark…
or summon your guards and test your luck?"
"I'll be waiting."
~~--------------------------
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