Jaime Lannister had a headache.

  It wasn’t the cold of the North, nor the endless stretches of dull grey stone. It wasn’t even the foul-smelling stables or the strange hush that clung to New Winterfell like a second skin.

  No—it was Joffrey.

  The boy had been screeching for the better part of an hour, his royal lungs unrelenting. “I am the crown prince!” Joffrey shrieked, stamping his gold-inlaid boots into the icy stone floor. “That bastard should kneel before me! He must let me hold the child and his wives!”

  Jon Snow, calm and expressionless as ever, simply turned away.

  Snowylocks and Ash, standing beside him like silent shadows, regarded the tantrum with visible discomfort. One of the northern knights nearby had reached for his blade at least twice already, and Jaime had to give him a warning glare to hold back. He couldn't blame the man—Joffrey had the voice of a dying cat and the manners of a madman.

  “Gods save us,” Jaime muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Cersei refused to approach the Children of the Forest, clutching her cloak and whispering about curses and old blood. Her paranoia had worsened with every passing day. Every time someone mentioned Jon Snow or his unnatural companions, her face would tighten into a grimace. Her once commanding presence was beginning to crack.

  Jaime had tried to reason with her, but it was no use. In desperation, he turned to Robert.

  The king, red-faced and irritable, had finally stood up and bellowed at Joffrey to behave, adding something about “spare the rod and spoil the prince.” Joffrey sulked in silence afterward, but the damage was done. Jaime felt the mood in the hall curdle. It was a blessing that the royal party would soon be returning to King’s Landing.

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  As the King’s company made their preparations to leave, Gojo—Jon Snow—watched them from a high balcony.

  His expression was neutral, but his thoughts were far from calm.

  He had hoped for more. Robert Baratheon—the man who slew Rhaegar Targaryen—was just a bloated, aging man now. Gojo couldn’t feel hatred for him. Only indifference. He had imagined fire, vengeance, justice. Instead, all he found was a tired old king, already halfway buried beneath wine and regret.

  Still, something stirred inside him as he watched Jaime and Cersei mount their horses. A strange pull. Familiarity.

  Tyrion confirmed it, Gojo thought. No known blood ties between Lannister and Stark… but this feeling…

  The truth had clicked into place days ago.

  Jaime and Cersei must be the Mad King’s children. It explained the strange aura. The resemblance. The obsessions. The way madness threaded through Cersei’s paranoia, through Joffrey’s cruelty.

  The Mad King had been obsessed with Joanna Lannister. Perhaps that obsession had borne fruit.

  Gojo’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of armored footsteps behind him.

  Daemon Targaryen knelt, his glamour flickering faintly in the cold wind. His face was disguised—he was a knight of New Winterfell in the eyes of others—but to Gojo, he was unmistakable.

  “We should have killed them all,” Daemon said bitterly, his voice sharp with anger.

  Gojo didn’t turn. “And start another war?”

  Daemon rose to his feet, his silver-blonde hair flickering beneath illusion magic. “They’ll betray us. Sooner or later. That prince—Joffrey—will spill blood for amusement. That queen will whisper poison into the ears of lords. And Robert—he’s too weak to hold a crown.”

  “I don’t care,” Gojo said flatly. “I didn’t save this world to drown it in another war. Innocents would die. Children.”

  “You’re stronger than all of them,” Daemon growled. “Stronger than Aegon the Conqueror. Stronger than any of the fools on the Iron Throne.”

  “I am the strongest,” Gojo replied, turning at last. His eyes, hidden beneath glamoured hair and illusioned features, still carried the glint of Limitless power. “That’s why I don’t need to prove it. Not to them.”

  Daemon didn’t speak. He simply knelt again, silent and simmering.

  He had found Gojo months ago, recognizing something divine, something cursed in him. Believing him to be the prince that was promised. He had offered loyalty, swearing to serve and protect. But his fire was always burning. Reckless. Impatient.

  He thinks I’m weak, Gojo thought. Just like Viserys I Targaryen.

  Gojo’s hand twitched slightly at the thought of Megumi.

  He looked toward the chamber where his son rested, swaddled and safe.