Teaser of The Son Will Do Just Fine Chapter 2 (Dragon Eggs)

The Son Will Do Just Fine Chapter 2 (Dragon Eggs) - One Shot - Jon Snow/Cersei Lannister

The Full Version of All One Shots written so far are available for Sergeant Tier or Higher.

Joffrey's face was turning an alarming shade of red as he swung wildly at Robb, his sword cutting through the air. Robb deflected each strike effortlessly. The harder Joffrey tried, the sloppier his form became, which only seemed to frustrate him further.

"Come on, Your grace!" Robb called out, grinning as he blocked another wild swing. "Is that the best you've got?"

Joffrey's eyes narrowed in rage, his grip tightening on the sword hilt. He lunged forward again, only to be met with Robb's swift counter, sending the young prince stumbling back once more. The Stark guards who had gathered around exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

"You'll pay for that, Stark!" Joffrey spat, his voice trembling with fury as he readied himself for another attack.

But before Joffrey could make his next move, a deep voice rumbled from the sidelines. "Enough of this child's play."

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stepped forward, his scarred face twisted into a mocking smile. He casually rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he watched Joffrey struggle.

"If you're looking to test your mettle, boy," Sandor drawled, his gaze now fixed on Robb, "why don't you try it against me?" His voice was thick with condescension, and his grin widened as he saw the effect his words had on Robb.

Robb's grin faded, his brow furrowing in irritation. The Stark guards stiffened, exchanging wary glances, their hands moving instinctively to the hilts of their swords. Sandor took note of their defensive postures but seemed entirely unconcerned.

"What's the matter, Stark? Not up for a real fight?" Sandor taunted, his tone dripping with disdain. "Or does House Stark breed pups too soft to fight with real steel?" He gestured lazily toward the training swords in their hands as though they were no more than children's toys.

"Careful, Clegane," one of the Stark guards muttered, his voice tight with anger.

Sandor turned his gaze toward the guard, smirking. "Careful? You Northerners are always so quick to protect your honor. It's almost cute. But your boy here," he said, motioning toward Robb, "he's all bark and no bite. Not much of a wolf, if you ask me. But more like a cat, and the cigil of House Clegane is a dog." he added with a nasty smirk.

Robb's face hardened, his knuckles white around the handle of his sword. "You think you're clever, Clegane?" Robb snapped. "Is this how you win your fights? With words?"

Sandor's grin only widened. "Words? No, boy. I win with steel. But judging by the way you're handling yourself against the prince over there," he gestured dismissively toward Joffrey, who was still fuming, "I'd say you'd barely last a minute."

"Say that again," Robb growled, his temper rising.

The Stark guards began to shift forward, sensing the tension, but Sandor stood his ground, unflinching. "You heard me, Stark. I said you wouldn't last a minute. I'd wager your father's whole damn castle that you'd be on your back before you even knew what hit you."

Robb took a step forward, his muscles tensing, his hand hovering over his sword.

"If you're so eager to fight, Clegane, fight me." Jon Snow's voice rang out, as he strode forward. The eyes of the yard shifted toward him, and Arya Stark trailed just a step behind her brother.

Sandor Clegane's lips twisted into a crooked grin, his full attention now locked on Jon. "Ah, the little bastard walks into the lion's den," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "I wasn't after your brother. He's hardly worth my time—like crushing an ant beneath my boot." His smile grew more smug as he eyed Jon's hand, moving to his sword.

"Jon Snow, there will be no fighting here!" Ser Rodrik Cassel stepped in, his voice stern as he tried to bring order. But Jon raised a hand, halting him.

"Don't worry, Ser Rodrik," Jon said with a calm, dangerous smile, his eyes never leaving Clegane. "Only a wolf can teach a bad dog its place."

At that, Sandor's snarl deepened. "Mind your tongue, Snow, or I'll cut it out for you."

Jon shrugged, a smirk forming on his lips. "That would be a first. You might actually have to catch something for a change."

Lannister men jeered and shouted in support of Sandor while Stark bannermen murmured quietly, their eyes fixed on Jon, willing him to hold his own against the fearsome Hound.

Jon tightened his grip on his sword. The Hound sneered, his burnt face twisting into something cruel.

"You got lucky with the Kingslayer and now you think you can defeat everyone." Sandor sneered at him.

"Well. I'm making a list of powerful knight I can defeat Ser Clegane. You are lucky. You will be the first on this list."

The Hound lunged first.

With a roar, Sandor swung his broadsword with brute force, the sound of metal slicing through the cold air sending a chill down Jon's spine. Jon barely blocked the strike, his arms shaking from the impact. He staggered back a step, quickly parrying another powerful blow. Sandor pressed forward, relentless. His strikes were brutal, each one meant to overwhelm and break through Jon's defenses.

Jon was on the defensive, his feet shifting rapidly in the snow as he tried to dodge and block Sandor's monstrous swings. The crowd roared with each clash of steel. Sandor's attacks were like hammer blows, and Jon struggled to keep pace. His sword moved quickly in his hands, but Sandor's sheer power made every block feel like his arms would give way.

"Come on, boy!" Sandor taunted, his breath steaming in the cold. "Fight back, or I'll end this quicker than you can blink!"

Jon grimaced but stayed silent, focusing on his footing, dodging left as another slash came for his torso. He ducked just in time to avoid a killing blow aimed at his neck. Sandor's sword came crashing down into the snow, but before Jon could counter, the Hound ripped it free and followed up with a punch to Jon's face.

The world spun for a moment as Jon's vision blurred, pain exploding across his cheek. He hit the snowy ground hard, the cold biting into his skin. For a moment, everything was a dizzy haze, and he could hear the Lannister men cheering loudly.

But Jon wasn't done yet.

Jon rolled to the side. Ignoring the pain coursing through his body, Jon pushed himself up, snow clinging to his clothes and face. He sucked in a sharp breath, his heart pounding, and raised his sword.

Now, it was time to go on the offensive.

Jon advanced with a speed that surprised even Sandor. His sword flashed through the air, faster and more precise than the Hound's heavy swings. Jon slashed and thrust, his movements fluid and relentless. Sandor barely managed to block the flurry of attacks.

Sandor snarled in frustration, swinging wildly, but Jon danced just out of range, darting back in with a rapid strike. The crowd's cheers began to shift as the Stark men found their voices, watching Jon take control of the fight. Jon's strikes were lighter but more precise, testing Sandor's defenses and pushing him back with every step.

The Hound was strong, but Jon was faster. Jon feinted left, forcing Sandor to lunge, and then quickly reversed, slashing at Sandor's exposed side.

The Hound growled, stumbling, but still held his ground, his broadsword raised in defense. Jon saw his chance. He swung low, then high, and finally brought his sword down hard against Sandor's sword, striking with all his might at just the right angle.

With a metallic clang, Sandor's broadsword was knocked from his grip, spinning through the air before landing in the snow several feet away. For a moment, the yard fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of both fighters.

Jon stepped forward, pressing the point of his sword to Sandor's neck. The Hound glared up at him, his chest heaving, but he didn't move.

"I yield," Sandor said, raising his hands. The Stark men erupted into cheers as Jon lowered his sword, and the Lannister soldiers grumbled among themselves. Sandor wiped snow from his face, glaring at Jon.

"Not bad, Snow," the Hound muttered, a strange look of grudging respect in his eyes. "Not bad at all."

Jon watched him walk away, walking back at Prince Joffrey, and he felt a rush of excitement, knowing he had won this time, unlike with Ser Jaime. This time, there was no draw. This time, he had won the fight.

As the cheers of the Stark soldiers filled the training yard, Jon lowered his sword, his breathing still heavy from the exertion of the fight. Snow clung to his hair and clothes, and a bruise was already beginning to form on his cheek where Sandor had landed that punch. Before he had a moment to gather himself, he saw Robb running toward him; a grin spread wide across his face.

"Well done, Jon!" Robb clapped him on the back, his blue eyes sparkling with pride. "I thought the Hound had you for a moment there. I thought I would need to beat him myself for you!"

Jon smiled faintly. "I didn't want to get hit in the face to do it, but it worked out in the end."

"Ahh, yes. You love your pretty face too much. This is a tragedy!" Robb said, acting like he was mourning with a big grin on his face.

"Shut up." Jon said half-heartedly, earning a chuckle from Robb.

Just then, Arya bounded up beside them, her wild hair bouncing as she grinned up at Jon. "That was amazing!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement. "The way you knocked his sword right out of his hands! Can you teach me..pretty please!"

Jon chuckled at Arya's enthusiasm. "It wasn't part of the plan, believe me. But I'm glad I gave you a show."

Arya puffed out her chest, clearly proud to see her brother best someone as fearsome as Sandor Clegane. "If I were you, I'd have taken that sword and—" She mimicked swinging a sword at Sandor's throat.

Robb laughed, ruffling Arya's hair. "Good thing Jon's got more sense than you, little sister."

As they laughed together, Jon caught sight of Joffrey standing at the edge of the crowd, his lips curling into a sneer. He wrinkled his nose, clearly displeased by the cheers for Jon and the fact that the Hound had been beaten. But Joffrey said nothing, just turned on his heel, his golden hair catching the light as he walked away in a huff, Sandor trailing behind him like a looming shadow. The Hound gave Jon one last glance, half a glare and half begrudging respect, before following his prince.

As the Lannisters disappeared, the Stark soldiers gathered around Jon, clapping him on the back and congratulating him for standing his ground against the Hound. Jon smiled, though his exhaustion was beginning to creep in.

"Well fought, Jon!" one of the bannermen called out.

"Aye, he won't be forgetting this fight anytime soon," another added with a grin.

In the midst of the praise, Ser Rodrik Cassel strode up, his white whiskers bristling beneath his stern gaze. He crossed his arms and gave Jon a pointed look.

"You've got skill, Jon," Ser Rodrik said, his voice firm but not without warmth. "But fighting the Hound? Do you have any idea how foolish that was? You could've been killed. A spar is one thing, but Sandor Clegane doesn't hold back. You're lucky you walked away in one piece."

Jon nodded, feeling a bit like a child caught misbehaving. "I know, Ser Rodrik. But it wasn't planned. It just... happened."

Rodrik gave him a knowing look but sighed, softening. "Be careful next time, lad. Your father would have never forgiven me if something were to happen to you."

Before Jon could reply, a new voice rang through the yard, cutting through the commotion.

"Well done, Lord Snow," the voice was soft but commanding.The crowd around Jon fell silent, parting quickly as they turned to see Princess Myrcella Baratheon approaching. Her golden hair was woven into an intricate braid, and her gown, a pale shade of green, shimmered in the faint light. A kind smile played on her lips as she walked toward Jon, a stark contrast to her brother's arrogance.

The Stark soldiers stepped aside, bowing their heads in respect as she approached, and even Arya went quiet.

Jon straightened, surprised to see her here. He wasn't sure what to say—he had never spoke to her. "Your grace," Jon said, dipping his head respectfully.

"That was an impressive fight," she said softly. "I've seen Sandor fight before, and few have managed to best him. You managed to get a draw with my uncle. They all say he is the best Knight in all of Westeros."

"Thank you, princess," he said, his voice respectful but hesitant. "But I was just lucky."

Myrcella's smile grew, her gaze flicking to the sword in his hand. "It wasn't luck. You have skill, Lord Snow."

Jon shifted slightly, still unsure of how to address her. "I hope you're enjoying your stay at Winterfell, Your Grace?"

"I am. It's a beautiful place," she replied, glancing around the courtyard. "I used to hear tales about the North, that it was full of wild savages."

Jon chuckled, glancing over at Robb. "Sorry to disappoint, Princess, but I'm sure those rumors came from Robb here."

"Shut up," Robb muttered under his breath, and Myrcella giggled, the sound light and genuine.

Before Jon could respond further, a new voice cut through the air. "Myrcella, your mother requests your presence in her chambers."

Ser Jaime Lannister strode toward them. Myrcella let out a small sigh of annoyance before turning back to Jon with a warm smile.

"I've heard you have a good singing voice, Lord Snow. Perhaps I'll hear it during the feast tonight?" she said teasingly.

Jon bowed again. "Of course, Your Grace. I'd be honored."

Her smile brightened before she turned and left, flanked by a Kingsguard and a Lannister guard. Jon watched her go, not expecting Ser Jaime to linger behind. But Jaime remained, his sharp eyes fixed on Jon.

"Ser Jaime, is there anything we can do for you?" Robb asked, stepping forward defensively.

Jaime ignored Robb, his gaze locked on Jon, studying him intently. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "Jon Snow, I wouldn't mind facing you in a duel again."

Jon raised an eyebrow, surprised. As he opened his mouth to reply, Jaime raised a hand. "Not now. Tomorrow, at first light."

Jon merely nodded his agreement. Jaime turned sharply, striding away with a strange look on his face.

Why do his eyes look so much like Rhaegar's? Jaime thought, his steps quickening, his breath slightly heavier than before.

Later - Cersei Lannister

"I heard you spoke with my daughter," Cersei remarked the moment Jon entered the chamber she had chosen for the evening. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made Jon's heart quicken.

"She came to me, Your Grace—" Jon began, but Cersei cut him off sharply.

"I know that, Jon," she interrupted, her tone laced with authority. "This may not be my castle, but I always know about anything of importance that happens in Westeros." She smiled, a knowing, almost dangerous smile, as she lifted a cup to her lips, her gaze never leaving his. Setting the cup aside, she rose gracefully from her chair.

"Myrcella wants you to sing during the feast," Cersei continued her voice firm. "You will do that much for her. But let me make myself perfectly clear—you will not speak to her again." Her tone left no room for argument, and Jon felt the weight of her command.

"I understand, Your Grace," Jon replied, bowing his head in deference.

"Good," she said, her voice softening into something more dangerous, more intimate. "Now, you should serve your Queen."

Without warning, Cersei closed the distance between them.

Morning - Arya

The cold morning air of Winterfell was crisp. The castle was quiet at this early hour, and Arya Stark wandered the stone corridors, her steps light. Nymeria padded lazily beside her, her large grey body moving with effortless grace. The dire wolf's head was low, and her eyes were half-closed as if uninterested in their early morning adventure.

Arya had woken before anyone else, her mind still troubled by the unanswered question that gnawed at her—Who pushed Bran? Her brother's fall had been declared an accident, but something about it didn't sit right with her.

She had been sneaking around for days, searching for clues—listening at doors, watching the Lannisters when she could, but so far, she had found nothing. No proof. No whispers. Only dead ends. She was starting to feel the frustration bubble up inside her, like a knot tightening in her stomach.

"Maybe I should start looking in the godswood," Arya muttered to herself, more to fill the silence than anything. Nymeria lifted her head at the sound of her voice but didn't respond, still moving lazily by her side.

They passed through the courtyard, the cobblestones slick with a light frost. The sky was fully brightening now, and a few servants were beginning to emerge, rubbing sleep from their eyes as they set about their duties. But Arya ignored them, too lost in her own thoughts.

She stopped near the training yard, her eyes scanning the empty space. Nothing. Again. Just like yesterday.

"Ugh, I'm never going to find out who did it," Arya said aloud, kicking at a stone on the ground in frustration. She folded her arms across her chest and looked down at Nymeria. "Maybe this was a stupid idea."

Nymeria huffed as if in agreement, and Arya sighed. The morning air was growing colder, and the thought of going back inside and break her fast, pretending everything was normal, felt like a defeat.

And then, suddenly, Nymeria's head snapped up.

The direwolf's ears pricked, her body instantly alert. Arya noticed the shift and frowned, following Nymeria's gaze. "What is it, girl?" she whispered, but before she could react, Nymeria bolted, her large paws kicking up snow as she took off.

"Nymeria!" Arya shouted, running after her. "Nymeria, stop!"

But the direwolf ignored her, running through the castle grounds. Arya's heart pounded in her chest as she sprinted to keep up, her boots slipping slightly on the frosted ground.

"Nymeria! Wait!"

Nymeria didn't even glance back, her body moving swiftly and silently, cutting through the early morning mist like a ghost. Arya struggled to keep pace, weaving between the towers and walls of Winterfell, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she chased her direwolf across the grounds.

Finally, Nymeria slowed, her paws crunching softly in the snow as she came to a stop near the entrance to the crypts of Winterfell.

Arya skidded to a halt just behind her, panting from the run. Her eyes widened when she saw what Nymeria had led her to—the door to the crypts, the heavy wooden frame looming before them, was ajar.

It was never left open like this.

The cold, dark air that wafted out from the passage sent a shiver down Arya's spine. She glanced around quickly. The courtyard was deserted.

"Who left it open?" Arya whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

Nymeria darted down the stone steps into the crypts, her large paws making barely a sound as she disappeared into the darkness below. The flickering torchlight from the upper levels did little to illuminate the long stairwell, and the cold, damp air of the crypts rushed up to meet Arya as she followed after her direwolf.

"Nymeria!" Arya called, her voice echoing off the stone walls as she descended quickly. "Nymeria, wait!"

But as before, Nymeria ignored her, slipping further into the shadows. The only sound was Arya's hurried footsteps and the distant drip of water echoing somewhere deep within the ancient crypts.

Her breath fogged as she reached the bottom of the steps, where the crypts opened into the long, eerie hallways lined with the stone statues of Starks long dead. The carved likenesses of her ancestors loomed over her, their eyes watching her, their dire wolves lying faithfully at their feet. Arya had always found the statues unsettling, their stone eyes seeming to watch her as she walked by.

Nymeria had stopped ahead, sitting silently before one of the statues. Arya hurried to catch up, her footsteps echoing through the crypt as she approached her direwolf. Nymeria sat perfectly still, her head slightly tilted, her golden eyes fixed on something just in front of her.

"Nymeria," Arya whispered, catching her breath as she knelt beside her direwolf. "What is it, girl?"

And then Arya realized where they were. Nymeria had stopped in front of the statue of Lyanna Stark.

Arya's heart skipped a beat as she looked up at the statue of her long-dead aunt. Lyanna's stone face was peaceful and serene, with her hair carved to fall in loose waves over her shoulders. The statue was smaller than the others.

"Why here?" Arya murmured, more to herself than to Nymeria. Her brow furrowed as she stared at the statue. She didn't know much about Lyanna, only that her father rarely spoke of her and that she was kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen. But what could have brought Nymeria here, to this particular statue, of all places?

Just as Arya was about to stand, something caught her eye—a faint glint of red, shimmering in the dim light.

She blinked and leaned closer, her curiosity piqued. There, just to the right of Lyanna's statue, something glittered faintly against the rough stone wall. Arya narrowed her eyes, stepping closer, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

It was small, barely noticeable at first, but as Arya drew nearer, she realized it was a tiny smear of something dark and red—blood, perhaps? The red glimmer caught the light just so, like a ruby in shadow.

"What in the Seven Hells...?" Arya whispered under her breath.

Her hand hovered for a moment before she finally pressed her fingers against the tiny red glint. The stone felt oddly warm beneath her touch, and for a split second, nothing happened. Then, with a soft, crumbling sound, a small portion of the wall gave way beneath her fingers, the ancient stone shifting and collapsing inward, revealing a hidden alcove just behind it.

Arya stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest as dust and debris fell to the floor in front of her. Inside the dark, newly exposed space, something caught the light—a chest, old and weathered, nestled deep within the wall.

Arya blinked, her breath catching in her throat. She glanced down at Nymeria, who sat still, her golden eyes watching Arya with a strange intensity. It was as if the direwolf had known this secret was hidden here all along.

"How did you know this was here?" Arya whispered, her voice trembling slightly. But Nymeria didn't respond. She simply stared at the chest, her ears pricked forward, waiting.

Arya's mind raced. Her first thought was to run to her father to tell him what she had found. Surely, this was important. But a second thought crept into her mind. She could tell her father later, if it was necessary.

She stepped closer, eyeing the chest. It was small but heavy-looking, the wood darkened with age and the iron hinges spotted with rust. There was no lock, no obvious markings to tell what lay inside. Arya hesitated for a moment, then reached in with both hands, gripping the edges of the chest and giving it a tug.

It didn't budge at first, wedged tightly into the space it had rested in for gods knew how long. Arya gritted her teeth and tugged harder, the weight of it straining her small arms. With a final, determined grunt, she managed to pull the chest free from the wall, stumbling back a few steps as she dropped it onto the cold stone floor with a soft thud.

She stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, staring at the chest in front of her. What could be inside? She looked again at Nymeria, who tilted her head slightly, as if urging her on.

With trembling fingers, Arya knelt and opened the chest. The hinges creaked faintly, the sound echoing through the crypt. As the lid lifted, Arya's breath caught in her throat.

Inside, resting on a piece of shimmering silver cloth, were two eggs.

They were unlike anything Arya had ever seen. They were large, almost the size of her head, and they gleamed faintly in the dim light of the crypts. One was a deep, midnight black with a faint sheen of red that caught the torchlight, while the other was a brilliant emerald green, the scales on its surface smooth and cold to the touch.

Arya's eyes widened, her breath shallow as she reached out a hand to touch the nearest egg. Her fingers barely grazed its surface, but even that brief contact sent a shiver down her spine. The eggs were warm, though not from the heat of the crypt—they felt as if they were alive, and she realized what she was staring at.

Dragon eggs.

The Full Version of All One Shots written so far are available for Sergeant Tier or Higher.