The grand doors to the throne room loomed before Jon, the heavy air of tension weighing down on his every step. The guards flanking the entrance were stiff, unsure of what was about to unfold, but Jon paid them no mind. His mind was focused, every plan, every calculation he had made, narrowing down to this moment.
Inside, the mood was equally thick. Littlefinger, Lord Petyr Baelish, stood before the Iron Throne, his expression carefully composed as he faced Cersei Lannister, who watched him like a lion considering its prey. Her green eyes gleamed with a mixture of suspicion and cold amusement. Jaime stood at her side, his golden hand resting on the hilt of his sword. To his right, Qyburn lingered in the shadows like a ghost, always watching, always scheming.
Jon slipped quietly into the chamber, unnoticed in the back, just another shadow among many. Arya was already in position, hidden somewhere out of sight, ready to strike when needed.
Littlefinger was speaking, his voice smooth and confident as ever. "Your Grace, I've always been loyal to the crown. My interests have always aligned with the well-being of the realm."
Cersei's lips curved into a slight smirk. "Loyalty? To the crown or to yourself, Lord Baelish?"
Littlefinger's eyes flashed, but his smile never faltered. "The crown and I are one and the same, Your Grace. I only seek what's best for the kingdom."
Jon clenched his fists, watching closely. This was the moment. Varys's rumors had done their work. Littlefinger's hold on the court was unraveling, and Cersei's trust in him was beginning to slip. But if this confrontation didn't end with finality, Littlefinger would find a way to survive, to wriggle free and start spinning his web again.
Cersei stood from the Iron Throne, taking a step toward Baelish, her eyes narrowing. "Do you know what I despise most, Lord Baelish?" Her voice was low, like a purr, but dangerous. "It's not treachery. I expect that from men like you. No, what I despise most is ambition that isn't properly managed. When people think they can outmaneuver me."
Littlefinger tilted his head slightly, maintaining his veneer of calm. "I have no ambition beyond serving the crown, Your Grace. Everything I've done—"
"Everything you've done," Cersei interrupted, her voice sharpening like a blade, "has been for your own gain. You've been pulling strings behind my back, negotiating with the Iron Bank, and attempting to take control of the City Watch."
The throne room grew still. Littlefinger's mask slipped just slightly—a flicker of surprise and calculation in his eyes—but he quickly recovered. "I was merely securing resources for the realm, Your Grace. The crown's debts to the Iron Bank are substantial. It's only natural to—"
"I don't need a lesson in finance, Lord Baelish," Cersei snapped, cutting him off again. "What I need is loyalty."
Littlefinger's smile was gone now, replaced by a thin line. "Your Grace, I have always been loyal."
"And yet," Jaime interjected, his voice cold, "we hear rumors that say otherwise. Rumors that you've been buying support in the City Watch, preparing for a power play."
Littlefinger turned his head slightly to face Jaime, his voice low and measured. "Rumors can be dangerous, Ser Jaime. I would be cautious of whom you trust."
Jon's heart quickened. This was it. If Cersei didn't act now, Littlefinger would slip away, just as he had so many times before. Jon had come too far to let that happen.
He moved forward, stepping out of the shadows and into the light of the throne room. The guards stirred, but Jon's presence was known enough that no one stopped him. Cersei's eyes flicked to him, and her eyebrow raised in mild surprise.
"Lord Snow," she said, her tone laced with disdain. "What brings you here? I thought you preferred the North."
Jon's gaze didn't waver. He wasn't here to play Cersei's games. "I'm here for the truth, Your Grace."
Littlefinger's eyes darted to Jon, suspicion and fear flickering in their depths. Jon saw the calculation in them, saw Littlefinger trying to find a way to twist the situation to his advantage.
"The truth?" Littlefinger said, his voice smooth again. "What truth, Lord Snow? Have I wronged you in some way?"
Jon stepped forward, meeting his gaze with cold determination. "The truth about your plans, Littlefinger. You've been playing your games for too long, and now they're coming to an end."
Cersei watched with a spark of amusement in her eyes, but Jon didn't care. This wasn't about her. This was about putting an end to Littlefinger once and for all.
Littlefinger straightened, his confidence slowly slipping. "I've done nothing but serve the realm—"
"You've served no one but yourself," Jon interrupted, his voice hard. "You've manipulated the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and now you're trying to seize control of King's Landing. But it's over. Your secrets are out."
Littlefinger's mouth twitched, but his voice remained calm. "Secrets? Lord Snow, you speak in riddles. What secrets?"
Jon's eyes were like steel. "The Iron Bank. The City Watch. Your alliances with those who would see the Queen fall. We know everything."
For the first time, real fear crossed Littlefinger's face. His eyes darted to Cersei, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand, silencing him.
"So," Cersei said slowly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "It's true, then. You've been conspiring behind my back."
Littlefinger shook his head, stepping forward in a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. "Your Grace, I would never—"
Cersei turned to Jaime. "Take him."
Jaime didn't hesitate. With a quick motion, he stepped forward, grabbing Littlefinger's arm and pulling him back toward the guards.
"No!" Littlefinger's voice was sharp now, filled with panic. "You can't do this! I've been loyal! I've done everything for the good of the realm—"
"Your good, you mean," Jon said, his voice cold. "You've betrayed everyone who ever trusted you. Now it's time you face the consequences."
As Jaime dragged Littlefinger toward the doors, the man's panic turned to desperation. His eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, for someone—anyone—to save him. When he realized no one would, his gaze landed on Jon, filled with hatred.
"You think you've won, Jon Snow," Littlefinger spat, his voice venomous. "But you don't understand the game. You'll never win. The North will betray you. The South will betray you. You're nothing but a bastard."
Jon's expression remained impassive, but inside, he felt a dark satisfaction. Littlefinger's time was over. The manipulations, the lies, the betrayals—they were all coming to an end.
As the doors closed behind Jaime and the guards, Jon turned back to Cersei. She watched him with an amused smile, clearly pleased by the drama that had just unfolded.
"Well," she said, sitting back on the Iron Throne, "that was entertaining."
Jon didn't respond. He had no interest in entertaining Cersei or playing her games. He had done what he needed to do. Littlefinger was out of the picture. Now, it was time to focus on what truly mattered: the North, the war to come, and the threats that lay beyond the Wall.
Arya emerged from the shadows, her expression unreadable as she moved to stand beside Jon. She didn't say a word, but Jon knew they were thinking the same thing.
The game wasn't over. Not yet.