Cregan's POV
Here's the thing about executions: they're messy, awkward, and rarely as dramatic as people want them to be. Unless, of course, you're ten-year-old me, standing in the freezing courtyard of Pyke, watching as King Robert Baratheon gets ready to turn Balon Greyjoy into a headless cautionary tale.
And let me tell you, I was here for it.
I mean, the guy burned villages, murdered innocent people, and thought he could challenge the Iron Throne with a bunch of pirates who still believed bathing was optional. You don't get to do all that and not have a very bad day.
The air smelled like salt, blood, and regret. The Ironborn, who usually acted all tough and grim, looked more like sad, wet cats. Balon stood in the middle of them, his once-proud kraken sigil now stained with blood and dirt, like a particularly ugly dishcloth. His hands were bound, his beard was a mess, and he had the overall energy of a man who had realized that, yes, maybe this whole rebellion thing was a mistake.
I stood between my uncle Benjen and my sister Dacey, both of whom were way too good at looking serious and intimidating. Me? I was mostly trying to stop my teeth from chattering. Not because I was nervous. It was just really cold. Also, I might've been vibrating with excitement.
Robert Baratheon was on a raised platform, slouching in his chair like he was seconds away from demanding a drink. His warhammer, which had been used to reduce many of Balon's men into something resembling squid chowder, rested against the arm of his throne. Tywin Lannister stood nearby, looking like he had personally invented disappointment. Jon Arryn, wise and composed as ever, was watching everything with that quiet "I am surrounded by idiots" expression that all old men develop eventually.
"Balon Greyjoy," Robert finally said, standing up. His voice boomed across the courtyard, making some of the Ironborn flinch. "You defied the Iron Throne, spilled innocent blood, and brought war to the realm."
Balon lifted his chin, summoning up the last of his doomed pride. "You may take my life, Baratheon, but the Ironborn will never bend."
I leaned toward Benjen and whispered, "You think he practiced that line in front of a mirror?"
Benjen let out a very undignified snort. Dacey elbowed me, but I could see the corners of her mouth twitching. Even Jaime Lannister, standing behind his father, coughed suspiciously into his hand. Tywin, in true Tywin fashion, ignored me like I was an unfortunate stain on his cloak.
Robert, meanwhile, just looked done.
"Oh, shut up," he grumbled, waving a hand. "Nobody cares about your honor speech. You lost. You're dead. Let's get this over with."
That's when Ser Ilyn Payne stepped forward, dragging his massive greatsword behind him like a man who had nowhere better to be. He had this permanent grimace that made it look like he was smelling something deeply unpleasant (probably the Ironborn, honestly). He stopped in front of Balon, giving him a long, slow look.
I caught movement at the edge of the crowd—Theon Greyjoy. The poor kid looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. I almost felt bad for him. Almost. Then I remembered the burning villages, the screaming children, and the countless bodies left rotting on the shores of the Westerlands and the Reach. Yeah. No sympathy.
Robert raised his hand, signaling for silence. The entire courtyard went still. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if it wanted a front-row seat to what happened next.
Ser Ilyn lifted his sword.
One swing.
One sickening crunch.
One very separate head.
The body slumped forward, twitching slightly before going still. The head rolled once, coming to a stop at Robert's feet. There was a long, quiet moment where everyone just stared at it, and then Mace Tyrell, bless his delicate Reachman soul, turned and vomited spectacularly onto the ground.
Dacey made a face. "Gods, Tyrell, have some dignity."
Jaime smirked. "That was his dignity."
I grinned. "That was the most useful thing he's done all war."
Robert, wiping a bit of Balon off his boot, turned to Tywin. "Make sure the Greyjoys get the message. If they so much as think about rebelling again, I'll come back and burn every last ship myself."
Tywin nodded, already planning twenty different ways to be terrifying in writing.
Theon was led away, stiff-backed and pale, his future as a glorified hostage beginning. And just like that, it was over.
As we turned to leave, Robert clapped me on the back, nearly knocking me over. "You've got fire in you, Cregan."
I smirked up at him. "Don't worry, Your Grace. I save my bad side for squids."
Robert roared with laughter, and for the first time that day, the tension in the air eased. But as we stepped out into the cold, I had a feeling that this wasn't really the end. Westeros had too many idiots for that.
And, honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.
—
You ever sit through a meeting so long and dull that you start contemplating self-inflicted injury just to escape? That was exactly the vibe in Pyke's damp, barnacle-scented hall. The grand war council had assembled, which was a fancy way of saying "a bunch of sweaty, grumpy lords in a room pretending they didn't want to stab each other."
I stood beside my uncle, Ned Stark, who looked like he was mentally chopping firewood and wondering why the gods had cursed him with politics. Across the room, Robert Baratheon lounged on his makeshift throne, nursing a drink and the world's most obvious hangover. Tywin Lannister, meanwhile, was standing so stiffly upright that I suspected he'd been born in that exact position.
In the middle of the table sat several chests, brimming with Greyjoy gold. The Ironborn had paid the ultimate price for rebellion—mostly in blood, but also in coin. You'd think that much wealth would brighten the mood, but no, these lords looked like someone had just canceled the next tourney.
Robert slammed his cup down, making Mace Tyrell jump like a startled cat. "Right. Let's divide this lot before I drink myself to death just to escape this discussion."
"The gold should be split among the kingdoms that suffered in the rebellion," Jon Arryn said, his tone the verbal equivalent of steel—calm, measured, and absolutely not up for argument. The man always looked like he knew something no one else did, which, given the crowd in this room, was probably true.
Robert waved a hand. "Fine. Split it between the Crownlands, the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Stormlands. The sooner we're done, the sooner I can celebrate."
Tywin Lannister, gold-hoarder supreme, didn't even blink. He simply nodded, probably already calculating how much of this wealth would eventually find its way back to Casterly Rock. The chests were opened, the gold distributed, and the room collectively sighed as if we'd just accomplished something meaningful.
Yeah. No. We still had the Iron Islands to deal with.
Robert cracked his neck like he was preparing to headbutt someone. "Now," he said, voice booming. "What do we do with the Ironborn?"
Cue the awkward silence. The Ironborn were basically that one drunk uncle at every feast who wouldn't stop talking about how much better things were in 'the old days' and then tried to steal the silverware. They were going to be a problem whether we wanted them to be or not.
"We dismantle their fleets, garrison their lands, and keep them under close watch," Tywin suggested in the same way one might suggest trimming a hedge.
Mace Tyrell nodded sagely, as though he understood a single word that had just been said. "And we should appoint a warden. A loyal man, strong enough to keep them in check."
I leaned toward my uncle and whispered, "Maybe one who doesn't fall asleep during war councils."
Ned sighed but didn't argue, which was basically his version of agreement.
Brynden Tully—the Blackfish himself—spoke next. "If we take everything from the Ironborn, they'll just rise again in another generation. We need to give them a reason to not rebel."
"Fear is reason enough," Tywin said, ever the cheerful optimist.
That was when Uncle Ned nudged me forward. It was his silent way of saying, Your turn, wolf pup. Let's see what you've got.
I stepped up. "The Ironborn respect strength above all else," I said. "If we just crush them, they'll come back twice as angry. We need to make them dependent on the Crown. Maybe instead of putting some new warden over them, we integrate them into the Westerlands."
That got everyone's attention. Tywin's eyebrow lifted—by Lannister standards, that was the equivalent of falling out of his chair in shock. "You suggest the Westerlands absorb the Iron Islands?" he asked, his tone cool.
"Well, they do love their gold," I said, giving him an innocent look. "And now they'd have iron to go with it. House Lannister could ensure their fleets remain in check, and the Ironborn get the benefit of stable rule under the realm's richest house."
Translation: Congratulations, Tywin. You just won a rebellious headache.
Tywin's eyes did the math. Robert, meanwhile, grinned like he'd just won a bet he didn't remember placing. "Done!" the king declared, slapping the table. "Tywin, you'll handle the Ironborn. See to it they behave."
Tywin inclined his head in what was probably meant to be gracious acceptance. "The wealth of House Lannister is at the Crown's service, Your Grace."
Yeah, sure, if by service he meant long-term investment opportunity.
Before we could escape, Robert clapped his hands. "Right, then! Time to celebrate. We'll have a tourney in Lannisport!" He turned to Tywin, beaming. "Paid for by the Lannisters, of course."
Tywin didn't even flinch. He just nodded, probably running the numbers in his head. Mace, on the other hand, looked absolutely thrilled, as though he'd just been promised an unlimited buffet.
That was my cue. I stepped forward. "Your Grace, House Stark must decline the invitation," I said, keeping my tone as respectful as a ten-year-old could manage. "When we left for this campaign, my uncle's wife had just confirmed she was with child. By now, my cousin is likely born, and we must return to Winterfell."
Robert's expression softened, his gruff exterior giving way to something gentler. For all his bluster, the man was a family man at heart. "Of course," he said, nodding. "Family comes first. Return home with my blessing."
Ned gave a grateful nod, and Robert clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him over. "But before you go," he said, grinning. "Meet me later for a drink. We'll toast to your newest child—and to your nephew, who's got more bite than half the lords here."
I smirked. "More than half, Your Grace."
The council chuckled. Even Tywin, maybe. Hard to tell with him.
As the meeting ended, Uncle Ned placed a firm hand on my shoulder, his version of praise. "You spoke well," he said.
Benjen Stark, standing nearby, smirked. "Too well. If he keeps this up, he'll be running the realm before he's grown."
Robert threw an arm around me. "Aye, and when he does, the first thing he'll do is outlaw war councils."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," I muttered.
The war council was over. The war was won. The Ironborn were crushed. But if there was one thing I knew about Westeros, it was this—victory never lasted long.
And I had a feeling the real trouble was just beginning.
—
Cregan Stark and the Art of Savage Burns
The inside of my tent smelled like wet wool, old blood, and bad decisions—basically, a typical day in the North. Uncle Ned sat across from me, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, maybe brooding on a cliff somewhere or solemnly petting a direwolf. Uncle Benjen was toying with a dagger, flipping it between his fingers like a man debating whether to stab the next person who annoyed him. Aunt Dacey had her arms crossed, radiating "you better impress me, kid," while Uncle Arthur leaned back, all effortless warrior cool, like a man who knew exactly how terrifying he was but didn't feel the need to prove it.
Oh, and I was there too. A ten-year-old sitting at a table with some of the deadliest warriors in Westeros, planning the future of the Iron Islands like it was my personal school project. No pressure.
"So," Uncle Ned said, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand bad ideas we had to clean up. "The lords have agreed to integrate the Iron Islands into the Westerlands."
Aunt Dacey's face was the dictionary definition of unimpressed. "And we're letting Tywin Lannister handle that? Might as well give a starving direwolf the keys to the meat hall."
I grinned. "Not a terrible idea, honestly. At least the direwolf wouldn't demand tax payments."
Uncle Benjen snorted. Arthur Dayne smirked. Ned Stark sighed like a man questioning every life decision that had led him to this moment.
I leaned forward, dropping my voice like I was telling some grand secret. "The truth is, the North doesn't need the Iron Islands. They're like that annoying kid in Wintertown who keeps stealing pies and then wonders why no one invites him to supper."
Benjen made a noise that might've been a laugh. Ned gave me The Look—the one that meant You are supposed to be taking this seriously, stop being a little shit. I, of course, ignored it.
"Think about it," I continued. "The Ironborn don't farm, don't trade, and their entire business model is 'steal things and hope nobody stabs us.' The North doesn't have the resources to play babysitter to a bunch of glorified sea bandits. The Westerlands, on the other hand? They've got gold coming out of every hole in the ground."
Dacey raised an eyebrow. "And you trust the Lannisters with this?"
I shrugged. "I trust them to look out for themselves, and that's all we need. Tywin will turn the Ironborn into a problem for someone else, which is exactly what we want."
Uncle Arthur, who'd been quiet until now—probably just waiting for the most dramatic moment to weigh in—tilted his head. "Tywin Lannister doesn't do charity. You hand him the Iron Islands, he'll expect something in return."
I met his gaze. "Oh, definitely. But that's the beauty of it—he'll be too busy keeping the Ironborn in line to cause us trouble. He gets a headache. We get peace. Everybody wins."
Dacey narrowed her eyes. "And if the Ironborn rebel again?"
I smiled. "Then the Lannisters will learn what happens when you take in a pack of rabid dogs and expect them to sit nicely. Either way, it's not our problem."
Benjen finally spoke, flipping his dagger once more before stabbing it into the table. "And while Tywin's busy wrangling pirates, what do we do?"
I leaned back in my chair. "We use our share of the Greyjoy gold to rebuild Sea Dragon Point and fortify the western coast. If the Ironborn do try anything, they'll find the North waiting with sharp swords and even sharper tempers."
Ned nodded, which in Stark terms was the equivalent of a standing ovation. "It's a sound plan."
Dacey sighed, then gave me a grudging nod of approval. "Fine. But if this backfires, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so.'"
Arthur smirked. "I believe you'd say it regardless."
Dacey smirked back. "You bet I would."
The tension in the room loosened, but I could still feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air. We'd just handed Tywin Lannister an entire kingdom's worth of problems. The question was, would it keep him too busy to make trouble for us?
Probably.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
Uncle Benjen stretched, then gave me an expectant look. "And by 'we,' you mean me, right? Because I'm the one who always gets stuck cleaning up your messes."
I grinned. "Obviously. What else are uncles for?"
Arthur chuckled. "You'll make a fine lord one day, Cregan."
"Yeah," I said. "If I survive long enough."
And that, my friends, was far from guaranteed.
—
General POV
The Northern camp roared with celebration. Fires blazed, meat sizzled, and ale flowed faster than Benjen Stark's patience when Cregan got bored and started "practicing" his swordplay on unsuspecting objects—like Benjen's boots. The air was thick with the scent of roasting boar, spilled beer, and the unmistakable energy of men who had fought, bled, and somehow lived to tell the tale.
And tell the tale they did. Loudly.
"Bjorn, if you say one more time that you killed three Ironborn with just your helmet, I will personally see to it that you test that theory on a rock," Dacey Mormont announced, raising her tankard like a queen issuing a decree.
Bjorn, who had clearly already had one tankard too many, opened his mouth—only for Benjen to clap a hand over it. "Just take the win, Bjorn. Before she challenges you to prove it."
Across the camp, the real troublemakers arrived—bards. Not just any bards, either. The kind that walked in like they were about to drop the hottest album of the century. They had the swagger, the instruments, and the sheer audacity to command attention in a camp full of rowdy, half-drunk warriors.
The first pluck of a lute string was enough to silence the nearest group of soldiers. Then the melody kicked in—low, haunting, and just dramatic enough to make the drunkest fighters sit up straighter.
The lead bard grinned. "Gather 'round, lads, and hear the tale of the Demon Wolf!"
Oh, great. Cregan had his own theme song now.
"From the frostbitten lands of steel and snow,
Rose the Demon Wolf, the Reaper's shadow.
A child in years, a warrior in might,
He waded through battle, a lord in the fight."
At this point, someone let out a war cry of approval. Possibly Bjorn. Definitely not Benjen, who was now massaging his temples like this song was giving him a headache.
"With Nightfall dark and Red Rain bright,
He cleaved through foes in the pale moonlight.
The Ironborn stood, defiant and proud,
Until the boy carved their fate in the shroud."
"Shroud?" Benjen muttered. "Pretty sure he meant 'a pile of severed limbs.'"
Dacey smirked. "Poetic license. Let them have their fun."
"Dagmer Cleftjaw, iron and bone,
Felt the Demon's bite, cold as stone.
One stroke, one cry, then silence fell—
The Ironborn knew the song of hell."
A tankard went flying toward the bard, but this time, it was in support, not protest. Someone howled like a wolf.
Benjen sighed. "Cregan's never gonna let this go, is he?"
"Of course not," Dacey said, grinning. "He's ten. And he's already a legend."
Meanwhile, in Cregan's Tent…
Cregan Stark, Destroyer of Ironborn, Master of the Savage Burn, and official recipient of the Most Likely to Get a Ballad Before Puberty award, sat in his tent, polishing Nightfall and pretending very, very hard that he couldn't hear the song.
"A shroud? Really?" he muttered. "I was going for 'tidal wave of carnage.'"
"Well, they left out the part where you called Dagmer 'a goat with a bad attitude' before you cut him down," came a dry voice.
Cregan glanced up to see Benjen leaning against the entrance of the tent, arms crossed.
"I mean, it was accurate," Cregan said, smirking.
Benjen sighed, rubbing his face. "Cregan. You're ten."
"And?"
"And you've already got a body count that makes grown men nervous. And a song. If your head gets any bigger, we're gonna have to build you a second tent."
Cregan snorted. "You're just jealous I have a theme song and you don't."
Benjen opened his mouth—then closed it, grumbling something about 'ungrateful nephews' and 'back in my day.'
Outside, the song hit the final verse:
"From Pyke's black shores to the sea's dark tide,
The Demon Wolf's name shall never die.
With a grin of steel and a warrior's might,
He is winter's wrath, the Ironborn's blight."
The camp erupted into cheers.
Cregan stood, stretching like a cat. "Well. That was fun."
Benjen raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously about to go out there and bask in your own glory?"
Cregan gave him a deadpan look. "Uncle Benjen. I just crushed an entire rebellion before my voice changed. Of course I'm going to go out there."
Benjen groaned. "Gods help us all."
—
The campfire crackled, sending sparks into the crisp Northern air. Somewhere in the distance, someone was butchering the lyrics to The Demon Wolf's Howl—a song that had apparently been played so many times it was now the official anthem of "Drunk Men Who Think They Can Sing." Ned Stark tried to ignore it. Robert Baratheon did not.
"By the gods, Ned," Robert grumbled, swirling the ale in his cup like a man contemplating whether to throw it at someone, "if I have to hear one more wailing fool ruin that song, I might start executing people for crimes against music."
Ned raised an eyebrow, the very picture of Northern patience. "You're assuming you'd be sober enough to aim properly."
Robert snorted. "I always aim properly." He took a long, dramatic gulp of ale, then gestured vaguely at the poor bard currently suffering a battle he could not win against his own lack of talent. "Remember when men sang about us, Ned? The Stag and the Wolf, they called us. We were legends! Now? Now we get overshadowed by a ten-year-old with a sword bigger than he is."
Ned smirked. "To be fair, Cregan did personally take down Dagmer Cleftjaw. At ten. And he managed to insult Cleftjaw's entire bloodline while doing it."
Robert barked a laugh. "Aye, the lad's got a mouth on him. Reminds me of myself."
"That should concern me," Ned said dryly.
Robert grinned like a man who had never once been concerned about anything in his life. "Bah. It's good for him. Makes him a proper Stark. Unlike you, you brooding, honor-obsessed—"
"I'm aware of the insults, Robert. You've been repeating them for years."
The king waved a hand. "And I'll repeat them for more. Because I love you, you miserable bastard." He thumped Ned on the back with enough force to nearly knock him into the fire.
Ned, to his credit, barely flinched. "And yet you insist on showing affection through violence."
"It's called camaraderie, Ned. Try it sometime."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching the fire flicker. Robert took another swig of ale, then glanced at his old friend. "You ever miss it?"
Ned knew exactly what he meant. The battles. The freedom. The days when the only thing that mattered was who swung their sword the hardest. "No," he said, because Ned Stark did not lie. "I have my family. My home. That is enough for me."
Robert made a noise that was either a laugh or a burp. "Sentimental fool." But there was something wistful in his eyes, something heavy. "I miss it, you know. The war. The way things were."
Ned sighed. "You miss Rhaegar."
Robert's jaw tightened. "I miss killing him. I should have done more. Burned every last Targaryen to the ground."
Ned didn't say anything. He had learned, long ago, that arguing with Robert about this was like trying to reason with a storm.
After a long pause, Robert shook his head, shaking off the darkness. "Ah, enough of this. Let's talk about something else. Remember Duskendale?"
Ned let out a rare, quiet chuckle. "You mean the time you nearly got us both killed over a tavern brawl?"
Robert grinned. "Bah, details! I maintain that was the best ale I've ever had."
"You passed out before finishing your first cup."
"A sign of quality!"
Ned sighed. "I had to bribe the barkeep to stop him from throwing us in a ditch."
Robert grinned. "And yet you stayed my friend. Truly, you are a glutton for punishment."
Another silence stretched between them, but this one was different. Warmer. The fire flickered, casting long shadows over the two old friends—two men who had shaped the world, who had fought and bled and lost too much.
For now, though, none of that mattered. For now, they were just Robert and Ned, a stag and a wolf, sharing a drink by the fire.
It was enough.
—
Jaime Lannister walked toward Ser Arthur Dayne like a man who knew he was about to get a lecture—and maybe a punch. And okay, maybe he deserved it. After all, the Ser Arthur Dayne was the guy who could take on an entire battlefield without breaking a sweat while Jaime could barely get out of a duel with a sword in his good hand. But, hey, he was the Kingslayer. He was supposed to be the one giving speeches, not the one who had to hear them.
"Ser Arthur," Jaime said, trying to sound casual about the whole thing, like this was some sort of friendly chat instead of, you know, confessing that he'd stabbed the king in the back. Literally.
Arthur didn't flinch, because of course he didn't. The man had the calm demeanor of a saint, or a man who was very, very good at pretending to be a saint. He gave Jaime a look, the kind that made you think he had seen this conversation coming a mile away. "Go on, Jaime. Say what's on your mind."
Okay. Here it was. Jaime took a breath, and then, bam, it came out. "I killed the Mad King," he said, wincing a little, like the words themselves might set something on fire. "I stabbed him to stop him from burning the city to ash. Not exactly knightly, but it was the only way to save everyone."
He braced himself for Arthur to, you know, pull out a sword and swing. That would be very much on-brand for Arthur Dayne. Instead, the man just stared at him for a second—no judgment, no disgust, just a steady look. How did he do that?
Arthur, in his usual Arthur way, didn't blink. "You did what you had to do, Jaime," he said, like it was obvious. "Sometimes the right choice doesn't look like the right choice. Trust me. I've been there."
Jaime blinked. Okay, what? This wasn't exactly what he'd expected. Arthur Dayne was supposed to be the knightly ideal, the "he who does no wrong" kind of guy. But here he was, basically saying, "Hey, it's cool, dude. You saved everyone. Good job." Jaime had been fully prepared for a lecture that would end with a pat on the back and an apology for not being as perfect as Arthur.
But Arthur wasn't done. Oh no, he had a bombshell coming. "Princess Elia once told me about what happened," Arthur continued, his voice dropping to a more reflective tone, like he was recounting some epic saga. "She spoke of your bravery, Jaime—not just in saving her and her children, but in fighting the Mountain even after losing your hand. She said you were a true knight, Jaime. A man who chose valor and sacrifice over self-preservation."
Jaime froze. Wait, what? True knight? Him? The guy who had gotten the nickname Kingslayer? The guy who'd lost his hand and his dignity to an oversized brute, all while trying to convince everyone he wasn't a total screw-up?
Jaime almost choked on his own surprise. "She—she said that about me?" he stammered, caught completely off guard. He tried to play it off like he was too cool for this kind of emotional mush, but it was working way better on Arthur than it was on him. True knight. That sounded… like something out of a legend. He couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or, uh, do something more ridiculous and emotional.
But Arthur just gave him one of those looks, the kind that made you think the man had lived through a hundred battles and had seen the best and worst of humanity, all while keeping that irritatingly serene face. "You did the right thing, Jaime. Don't let anyone—anyone—tell you otherwise."
Jaime tried to brush it off with a smirk, but it was a little hard when Arthur Dayne was basically telling him he wasn't a total failure. "Speaking of doing the right thing," Jaime said, trying to shift gears like a horse in a full sprint (and failing spectacularly), "have you heard the latest ballad about your nephew, Cregan?"
Arthur's face lit up like he'd just been given the best news in the world. "Ah, yes. The boy's quite the talk of the town, isn't he?" he said with a grin that made Jaime wonder if the man was secretly a proud uncle at heart. "Though, I like to think that some of that talent comes from my training."
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Some of it? I'm sure that and talent he's got, it's all from you. And, of course, your experience in teaching from when I was your squire."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, his smirk turning into that classic I know something embarrassing about you look. "Oh, I haven't forgotten. You certainly were a challenge to train."
Jaime leaned back, feigning nonchalance, though his heart was doing a weird happy little dance. "Challenge? You mean 'greatest success'?"
Arthur chuckled, and it wasn't one of those "polite laughs," it was a genuine laugh, the kind that made Jaime think they were actually friends after all. "Greatest success?" Arthur teased. "Let's not get carried away, Jaime."
Jaime grinned. "And yet, here I am—your greatest success."
They both laughed, and for a moment, everything felt light. The tension from the confession, the weight of their past mistakes, the world outside with its chaos and bloodshed—all of it seemed far away. It was just two men, sharing a drink, cracking jokes like they hadn't spent years fighting battles and losing parts of themselves.
When the laughter finally died down, Arthur's expression turned serious, though his eyes still held that unspoken understanding. "You've done well, Jaime," he said, his voice carrying the kind of weight that made it impossible to brush off. "Even after everything you've been through. Learning to fight with your left hand after losing your right? That's strength. That's what makes you a knight—not your sword, but your perseverance."
Jaime felt something tug in his chest—something heavy and kind of… good. He had to clear his throat to hide the fact that he wasn't sure what to say next. "Thanks, Arthur. That… that means more than you know."
They sat there, watching the fire flicker and crackle, their camaraderie hanging in the air like the last good joke. The night stretched on with stories, laughter, and the occasional jab at Jaime's expense (because, come on, that was just how it went).
For once, it didn't matter that they had broken oaths, betrayed kings, or worn too many scars. For a brief, fleeting moment, it was just two knights sharing a drink and remembering that honor, while complicated, could still be found—even in the least likely places.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!