Release everyone as you let Tywin know that he'll die in a few weeks not at your hands

You turn your attention to the room at large, to the frozen dolls awaiting your final instruction. You take a deep breath and release the compulsion. It's like opening a floodgate.

The world rushes back in. Torches flicker. The distant city sounds, muffled by stone, become audible again. The very air seems to stir.

Jaime is the first to react. He blinks, his vision clearing. His eyes fall upon Cersei, standing naked in the center of the room, hastily pulling on her gown. A tidal wave of confusion, then horror, then a raw, protective fury washes over his face. "Cersei! What in the seven hells...!" he starts, taking a step towards her.

Cersei flinches away from him as if he's a leper. Her expression is a storm of new emotions, shame at her nakedness, but beneath it, a visceral, inexplicable revulsion. "Don't touch me," she snaps, her voice dripping with the contempt you just implanted.

Tywin stirs. The cold calculations return to his eyes in a flash. He sees you. He sees his disheveled daughter. He sees Jaime's rage. The pieces don't fit, but he is already trying to **** them into a pattern he can understand, a pattern he can control. He ignores the naked queen, ignores the fuming son. His gaze is fixed solely on you. The true threat.

You grant him a thin, mirthless smile. "A lesson, Lord Tywin," you say, your voice calm and clear. "You think your legacy is in your name, in your gold, in your children. You're wrong." You step back towards the open balcony, the cool night air a welcome relief. "You will live for a few more weeks. You will not die by my hand, nor by dragonfire. What could you offer me if I tell you how you'll die?"

Tywin's face is a mask of granite. "**** comes for us all, boy."

"Yes," you agree. "But yours... yours will be undignified. It will be on a privy. You'll die from a crossbow bolt shot." You watch Jaime's face, the slight flinch of disbelief. "Because of me, you'll know every shit you take could be your last." You look at Cersei now. "Your own legacy will kill you in the most pathetic way possible. You'll shit gold to your very last breath."

You don't wait for a reaction. You turn and leap onto the balcony railing. The dragon's shadow falls over the stone, and the room freezes again. This time, it's pure, primal fear.

"One last thing, Jamie," you call over your shoulder, your voice almost lost in the beat of Drogon's wings. "Start looking for a new Hand, you won't be having one in a few weeks. Plus your son has a very bad fall coming up."

And with that, you step into the void. A heartbeat of falling wind, then a bone-jarring thud as you land squarely on Drogon's back. You dig your knees in, and the great beast answers your unspoken command. He rises, not with a roar this time, but with a powerful, silent surge that lifts him into the King's Landing sky.

You look down. The Lannisters are tiny figures on the balcony. Even from this distance, you can imagine the chaos. The confusion in Jaime's mind, the sudden, inexplicable hatred in Cersei's eyes, the cold, calculating terror in the heart of Tywin Lannister, the man who now knows not only that he will die, but how, and when.

You let Drogon circle once more, a final, silent taunt, before turning him north. The game has changed forever. They are no longer players. They are pieces on your board, moving to a tune only you can hear.

***

The flight back is a blur of cold wind and exultant power. You land Drogon in the courtyard of Castle Black, the dragon's arrival scattering the Night's Watch and wildlings alike. You slide from his back, the familiar chill of the North a welcome embrace after the oppressive heat of the south.

You don't even make it to your chambers. They are waiting for you in the great hall. Dany, regal and commanding, flanked by Ygritte, who is practically vibrating with restless energy, and Melisandre, a serene smile on her lips, as if she saw every outcome of your journey in her flames.

"You are back, my love." Dany states. Her violet eyes scan you, from the wind-tangled hair to the dust of King's Landing on your cloak. She is looking for a wound, for a sign of failure. She finds none.

Ygritte just grunts. "Well? Are they all dead? Did you burn the lion's den?"

"Not yet," you say, your voice echoing slightly in the vast hall. "But I lit a fire. One that will consume them. We will hear of Tywin **** soon. Then we can march south and take back Winterfell.

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