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Chapter Text

The bed was cold again.

Cersei lay still among the silk sheets, her golden hair fanned like a lion’s mane across the pillows. A breeze stirred the gauze curtains, bringing with it the sour tang of wine and the heavier musk of sweat. Robert had left before dawn, as he always did... reeking of drink and half-hearted lust, muttering her name only when he wasn’t calling her Lyanna. He’d not even looked at her when he rolled off, grunting like some great bear in heat. She could still feel the weight of him on her chest. Even the whores in the Street of Silk must be treated better than this.

Outside, the wind rustled the banners of House Baratheon. The crowned stag flapped against the morning sky, triumphant and black.

Disgusting.

She rose and summoned her maids with a sharp clap. Her limbs ached, her thighs were bruised, but she would not wince. Pain was weakness, and weakness was unbecoming of a queen.

She hated the sight of it.

But the mirror did not lie.

She stood before it naked, save for the lion-clasped necklace at her throat. The glass was tall and polished to a shine, brought from Myr at great expense, framed in chased gold. In its depths she saw herself... full, glowing, terrible.

Nineteen years old. Skin like alabaster, smooth as Dornish silk. Breasts high and proud. Hips curved for royalty. A neck as long as a swan’s. Her hair—gods, her hair—poured down her back like molten gold, thick and gleaming, as though the sun itself had crowned her. And her eyes… emeralds, bright and watchful. Lannister eyes. Lion’s eyes.

I am beautiful, she thought. More than that. I am the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

No one would say it to her face but they knew. They all knew. Even when they scorned her, they saw her. Even when they cursed her name, they dreamed of it.

She traced a finger along the line of her collarbone, imagining how she must appear to them: the courtiers, the knights, the lords. Women wore gowns like armor, but she needed no armor. Her body was her banner, her smile her sword. Her beauty was a crown more potent than any forged in Valyria.

She leaned closer to the glass. There were no lines in her face. No age. No flaw. She was as the gods had made her... no, as the gods should envy. She thought of the Targaryen queens, of Rhaenyra, of Visenya with her blade. They had dragons. I am the dragon now, she thought. And the fire is mine.

What fool would not kneel?

One day, they would all understand.

She knew what she had to do. Today, she had to hunt. To track and claim a prey sharp enough to wipe the bitter taste of Robert’s neglect from her mouth and soul.

The king’s cruelty lingered on her skin like a stain... his dismissive words, his wandering eyes, his heavy hands on other women. She was his queen in name only, a gilded cage she had grown already tired of.

I will not be mocked, she thought fiercely, her fingers curling into fists beneath her silk sleeves. Not today. Not ever.

“Fetch the green gown,” she ordered. “The one with the gold embroidery.”

The girl—Mella, or Mara, she hardly cared—nodded quickly and rushed to obey.

Yes. She would wear the green today.

Not the pale seafoam silks the Tyrell girls favored, nor the Lannisport brocade the seamstresses so adored. No... emerald. Deep, dangerous, blinding green, the color of wildfire and envy, the color of her eyes when men forgot their place.

It was not enough to be beautiful. Not today. She had to be… perfect. So radiant the court would blink to look upon her, so resplendent the air itself would hesitate around her.

Let them whisper. Let them all wonder what she meant by such a dress... the Queen, in a gown slashed to the thigh, with golden lions dancing along the hem, her sleeves dripping with Myrish lace like spider silk, her breasts all but daring to escape.

A gown too tight to breathe, too low to be decent. It was a weapon. A provocation. An answer to every insult Robert had not known he’d given her.

He would not look at her. Not truly. His gaze slid over her as if she were furniture. Useful for heirs, for alliances, for lies about love. But today, he would see.

Cersei lifted her arms as the handmaidens fastened the gown.

She did not thank them.

“Pull it tighter,” she said.

“My lady, you’ll scarcely be able to—”

“I said tighter.”

The bodice clung to her ribs like armor. Good. Let it hurt. Let it shape her like marble carved to a queen’s form. She would suffer for beauty... for dominance. What did pain matter, next to glory?

Her necklace was gold, woven like a chain of lion claws. Her hair curled in lazy waves around her shoulders, oiled and scented with ash blossom. She would not wear a crown today. I do not need it. Let the room crown me with their stares.

She studied her reflection one final time. There was nothing soft in her gaze, no sweetness, no plea. Just hunger. Just flame.

Let them come. Let them gawk. Let Stannis scowl and Jon Arryn sigh and Robert drink until he sees Lyanna’s ghost where I stand. I will not fade.

She smiled, slow and cruel.

“Let them choke on it.”

The moment the doors to her chambers swung open, the world seemed to still... or so she liked to believe. Voices hushed.
Heads turned. Eyes slid over her like unbidden hands. This was how it must be. When a queen walks, the world should hold its breath.

“Your Grace… the color is divine,” whispered one girl... a daughter of some lesser lord, though her name escaped Cersei already. The girl had wide, vacant eyes and far too many teeth.

Another, stiff as a reed and dressed like a septa despite barely being a woman, smiled foolishly.

“You look like a dream,” the second murmured.

Sometimes I want to scrape those smiles off their faces with my fingernails, Cersei thought.

She smiled in return, of course: regal, cold.

“How kind of you,” she said, her voice smooth as velvet but edged with hidden thorns.

Stupid girls. All of them. They shone like pearls until someone rubbed them raw and they turned to grit and mud. They knew nothing of the world. Only gossip, ribbons, and who touched whom beneath the table. They fluttered around her like moths, believing that by drawing closer to the light, they might become part of it.

Darkness will swallow them first.

They looked at her with awe, but beneath it lay something else... jealousy, rivalry, desperate hope that one day they might take her place. But they were not lionesses. They were sparrows in lace. And if they dreamed of ambition, they’d first have to learn to bite before they were torn apart.

Cersei strode on, not sparing a glance behind. Her gown whispered over stone like a knife over a throat. The ladies-in-waiting trailed after her like shadows, trying to keep pace.

They are no rivals. They are my reflection. They show me how far above them I stand.

And today... today she intended to remind them all.

Her thoughts drifted lazily to Jaime. Probably standing guard by some cold, gray tower, dull as dirt. The same endless, pointless watch he’d been keeping since the day they wed. A golden lion trapped in a cage of stone and boredom.

But today was not a day for Jaime’s games. No, today she needed something more. Something sharp. Something that would bend to her will. Jaime’s soft, familiar presence was a comfort, but also a chain.

Today, she told herself, I want a challenge. Something to break, something to conquer.

Jaime could wait by his tower. She had other battles to fight.

She walked through the winding halls of the Red Keep, her footsteps echoing softly on the cold stone. Her mind, restless and bored, drifted over the usual players of court like pieces on a board, waiting to be moved, toyed with, broken.

There’s the pale boy with dark, restless eyes, always watching, but never daring to speak. Too cautious for a man, too quiet to matter. She barely remembered his name... if he even had one worth keeping.

And the one with the crooked smile and wild black hair, who laughed too easily and drank too much. A fool, but sometimes fools were amusing.

The lanky youth with hawk-like eyes, sharp and silent, like a blade hidden beneath a cloak. Too dangerous to touch, but too tempting to ignore.

The nervous one who fidgeted with his fingers like they held some secret too heavy to bear, always skittish, hovering just outside the circle.

And the laughing boy with eyes too bright for the gloom of the court, who shouted to drown out the silence, but never fooled anyone.

Names are so easy to forget, she thought. But faces, desires, weaknesses... those I never lose.

None of them stirred anything in her. The pale boy with restless eyes was too timid. The crooked smile hid only foolishness. The hawk-eyed youth carried an edge that warned of trouble... not the kind she desired. The nervous one trembled beneath invisible chains. And the laughing boy - his brightness was empty noise.

Boring, she thought, her gaze growing colder.

She was not interested in trivial distractions. She needed something sharper, something dangerous.

Then, suddenly, there he was. Stannis.

His face was stern, handsome in a hard, unyielding way... less striking than Jaime’s golden ease, but with a ruggedness that hinted at iron beneath flesh.

He met her gaze briefly, his eyes flickering with a chill that made her skin prickle. There was no warmth in him, only the cold fire of rigid duty and a will that refused to bend.

Ugly inside, she thought, lips curling with disdain.

But maybe… just maybe...

She studied him from the corner of her eye, her thoughts sharpening like a blade. Stannis was no easy prize. He was rigid as forged steel, unyielding and cold, wrapped in a coat of duty and bitter pride.

There was no flicker of desire in his glance, no weakness to exploit at first sight. No desperate hunger for her favor... only a quiet, stubborn fire that dared her to try.

Most men bow, she mused, but he stands like a stone in a storm. If I wanted to break him, I would have to shatter him.

That thought both thrilled and bored her.

The dull brother. The one with no songs written about him, no lovers whispering his name. Younger than Robert, but already twice as grim.

He had no appetite for women. Nor, from what she could tell, for men either. Just ambition, dried out and shriveled by rules and codes no one else cared to follow. A boy trying to be a fortress.

He had no charm. No warmth. No grace.

No soul, Cersei thought.

And yet... there was something about that hollow pride of his that beckoned to her. A man like that would never come willingly. She would have to drag him down, brick by brick, until he begged to be noticed.

It would not be passion. It would be conquest.

And conquest, after all, was a kind of pleasure.

To win over such a man, to twist his will until it bent to hers... that was a game worthy of her cunning. Not the easy laughter of fools or the empty chatter of idle courtiers.

He is a challenge, she whispered, voice low and venomous. And I am no stranger to breaking what others cannot.

For the first time that day, her smile was not just cold. It was hungry.

She had decided. Today would be the day she struck. The day she’d begin unraveling the rigid shell around Stannis, piece by piece.

Her smile deepened.

Stannis stood by the high window in the eastern gallery, staring out across the city with a scowl fixed so tightly it might have been etched into his bones. He was alone, as always. No pageboys, no idle girls simpering nearby, no laughter clinging to him like it did to Robert. Just silence and the weight of whatever principles he clutched so miserably.

Cersei approached on light steps, her gown whispering like silk against stone. She paused just behind him, letting the moment stretch, letting him feel her presence before she spoke.

"Such a beautiful day," she said smoothly. "And you choose to spend it glowering at rooftops?"

He turned, slowly, as if each movement cost him effort. His eyes met hers with the wary distrust of a stag sensing the lioness too late.

"Your Grace," he said, curt. No bow. No smile.

Cersei smiled for both of them.

"Must we be so formal? We are family now, after all."

Stannis blinked. "My brother married you. That does not make us friends."

So blunt, she thought, amused. So brittle. His lack of artfulness would have embarrassed any courtier. But it delighted her.

There was no mask to peel away... only raw stone to crack and shape.

She tilted her head, golden hair gleaming in the sunlight like a crown the gods themselves had spun. "Is that how you greet all your queenly kin? Or just the ones you dislike before they speak?"

His jaw flexed. A tell. He was uncomfortable.

Good.

"I treat all with equal honesty," he said. "Even kings."

"And no one has ever told you how dull that makes you?"

That stung. She saw it in the flicker of his eye.

There it was. A crack.

He stiffened. "I do what must be done."

"Must?" She laughed softly, a sound that danced between mockery and challenge. "Or what you’re told? What your precious honor demands? Tell me, does your honor keep you warm at night?"

His jaw clenched, but his eyes flicked away.

He was a wall. A cold, silent wall of flesh and steel, and gods, how she loathed walls. His shoulders were broad beneath that joyless black doublet, his mouth drawn tight in that sour, brooding line. There was strength there... physical, moral, and utterly joyless.

And she hated him for it.

And she wanted him for it.

She smiled, slow and golden, voice honeyed. “Is it true what they say? That the small council whispers of your need for a wife?”

No reply. But the way his jaw tensed... it was all the answer she needed.

“Do you dream of her?” she cooed. “A plain, obedient thing. Silent in the bedchamber. Dutiful in the nursery. Easy to forget.”

Still silence. Delicious.

She stepped forward again, her breath warm between them.

“You hate the thought, don’t you?” she whispered. “Being yoked to someone soft. Powerless. Powerless to touch you. To know you.”

And then her hand rose. She let her fingers glide through the space between them, reaching for the hard line of his shoulder.

His hand caught hers like a steel trap.

Not roughly. Not with rage. But with absolute, unshakable control.

It stole her breath.

She looked up, eyes meeting his. Those hollow eyes: devoid of affection, stripped of courtesy. There was no lust there. No fury. Just unyielding rejection.

"Do not," he said. Quiet. Certain. Like law itself.

Her breath caught. She let the moment burn.

And then she tore her hand back, sharp and sudden but too late to stop the pulse fluttering in her throat, the heat gathering low in her belly.

She laughed, a sharp, low sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“So stern,” she said, voice almost hoarse. “You should be careful, Lord Stannis. You might make a woman think you have secrets.”

He said nothing. Of course he didn’t.

She turned away, chin high, heart pounding.

He was like ice. Pure and cold and untouched.

And gods help her, she had never wanted to set fire to anything more.

Chapter Text

Cersei stood in the center of her chamber, surrounded by silks and velvets. The air smelled of perfume and dust and long weariness.

Three handmaidens flitted nervously around her like birds too frightened to land, holding up one gown, then another, offering soft opinions she barely heard.

“Too plain.”

“Too fussy.”

“Too much like something Lysa would wear,” she muttered, lips curling.

That last comment made the girls freeze.

Jaime chuckled from where he leaned lazily against the window arch, arms folded, half in shadow and all in armor. "She’ll be flattered. You know how much she adores you."

Cersei didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She could feel his smile: sharp, private, dangerous.

“Lysa Arryn is a moon-faced sheep,” she said, letting her gaze linger on a pale blue gown with silver embroidery. “All nerves and weeping. No wit, no grace. And yet we’re meant to celebrate her like she were a Targaryen princess.”

“It’s her nameday,” Jaime said, mock solemn. “She was with child again, not long ago. That must count for something.”

Cersei snorted. “So the court whispers.”

She flicked the orange silk aside with a lazy wave of her hand.

“They say it was her second this year,” she added coolly. “Or was it the third? I lose track. None of them lasted long enough to be remembered and she’s not carrying now, is she?”

Jaime’s smile tightened, just a little. He did not like talk of dead children. Cersei relished that.

“And Lord Arryn?” she went on. “He’s in the solar with Robert or gods know where. Anywhere but beside his weeping wife.” She picked up a goblet of watered wine and sipped, then scowled. “He spends more time with his birds than with her. Perhaps that’s why her womb keeps turning against him.”

The handmaids busied themselves with a flurry of ribbons, pretending not to hear.

Cersei moved closer to Jaime, lifting a necklace to her throat. “Do you like this one?” she asked lightly. “Or is it too much?”

Jaime’s gaze lingered a beat too long. “Everything on you is too much.”

She gave him a flicker of a real smile, sharp as glass.

Then she turned back to the mirror. Tonight, she would shine.

Let Lysa Arryn sit wrapped in her nerves and eyes red from crying. Let the lords and ladies offer their empty toasts.

Cersei would give them something real to look at.

“Fetch the blue one with the gold leaves,” she snapped. “And send for Maester Ballabar. I want a tonic for my eyes.”

"Your eyes," Jaime murmured, "are the last thing anyone will be looking at."

She smiled at her reflection. The smile of a lioness before the feast.

And said nothing at all.

“Try the red one,” Jaime said, idly thumbing the edge of a velvet drape. “You always look like a goddess in red.”

Cersei arched a brow at him in the mirror. “And when have you seen a goddess?”

“I see one now,” he said with a smile that was for her alone.

She would have returned it, had the handmaids not been watching like mice.

Jaime straightened. “I have to go. Ser Barristan will take over your guard detail until evening.”

Cersei frowned. “You're not attending the nameday?”

He shook his head, gold hair catching the afternoon sun like flame. “No. Some fool tournament drill... Robert’s whim, I’m told. I’ll be posted near the stables tonight.”

Her lips pressed into a line. “How convenient.”

Jaime only smirked. “Lysa won’t miss me.”

She watched him go, cloaked in crimson and arrogance, the scent of leather and steel lingering like a memory.

Then—

“Your brother is… truly very handsome, my lady,” said one of the handmaids.

Cersei’s head turned. Slowly.

She said nothing at first. The girl, oblivious, smoothed a fold in the green gown, eyes still on the door.

“Oh?” Cersei’s voice was light, but brittle. “Do you think so?”

The girl blinked, sensing the shift too late. “Well… everyone says so, my lady. He looks just like—”

“Like me.” The words were ice.

The handmaid hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. But you’re the prettier one. Of course.”

There. That was better.

Cersei’s smile bloomed like a rose in full sun.

“Of course I am,” she said softly, turning back to the mirror.

She didn’t need the girl’s flattery. She knew it as truth, bone-deep. Jaime was a reflection... golden, glorious, but still only a mirror. What people saw in him was simply the shine of her own beauty, her own fire.

Still, it pleased her to hear it aloud. Even from a handmaiden.

“Brush my hair again,” she commanded, sinking onto the cushioned seat before the glass. “Gently. I want it to fall like silk.”

Behind her, one of the handmaidens moved at once, lifting the silver-handled comb with care. She drew it through Cersei’s golden hair in long, measured strokes, murmuring something about oils and split ends, words meant to soothe, to flatter.

Cersei wasn’t listening.

Rain.

Not yet falling, but promised in the wind. Clouds gathered beyond the battlements, purple-gray and sullen, swallowing the sun in slow, patient gulps.

The light was wrong again. Dim and dull as a tarnished coin. It had been this way for weeks... clouded mornings, sudden downpours, mud slicking the stones of the Great Sept, the gutters gurgling like dying things.

And then, quite suddenly, she thought of Stannis Baratheon.

She had not meant to, but the connection formed without effort. Cold. Predictable. Miserable. The storms of Dragonstone had followed him here, it seemed... he wore them in his eyes, in his scowl, in the stiff way he held his shoulders as if refusing even to bend to wind.

Rain and Stannis. Equally joyless. Equally unrelenting.

Her lips curved in a wry smile.

The sky has his temperament, she thought. Sullen. Proud. And utterly without charm.

But perhaps, she mused, just perhaps—

If one knew how to catch a storm, how to bottle it, how to bend it—

Then even the rain might be made to kneel.

“Fetch my purple gown,” she said aloud, still watching the clouds gather. “The one with the black stitching. It seems the skies intend to mourn today.”

An hour later, Cersei entered the hall.

The feast had already begun - platters of quail and sweetroot filled the long tables, and the air buzzed with the usual laughter of courtiers too drunk or too desperate to hold their tongues. Someone had hung garlands over the windows. Pale flowers drooped already in the heat.

She moved like smoke through it all. Greeted, curtsied to, praised. She smiled as expected, nodded where she must, but her mind remained elsewhere. The names, the faces... blurring, wilting. Lords who spoke too much. Ladies who giggled like girls.

This is the best the realm has to offer? she thought, eyes heavy-lidded with boredom. Fools in brocade. Lambs in silk.

At the high table sat Lysa Tully... now Arryn. Round-faced, her cheeks dusted with crumbs, she was cutting into a slice of honeyed pearcake with undue attention. Her fingers were stubby, her posture too upright as if she'd been taught grace but never learned it.

She looks like a baker's daughter, Cersei thought. And eats like one, too.

Somewhere, someone played a lute. A servant tripped over a flagstone.

Cersei’s eyes remained fixed on Lysa.

They were meant to be friends, once. So everyone had said. Of similar age, noble birth, highborn beauties in waiting for great matches. It was expected that they would bond, laugh, share secrets. That was the story... young ladies in the cradle of power, sisterly in spirit.

But Cersei had never believed in stories. And Lysa, with her soft voice and damp palms, had never inspired anything in her but disdain.

She took a goblet from a passing servant and drank.

She’d come here for the game. Not the feast.

And the game was not at the high table. It moved elsewhere. In the shadows and silences.

She turned her gaze from Lysa... but she had not taken more than three steps toward freedom when Robert’s voice bellowed across the hall like a warhorn.

“Cersei!” he called, his cheeks flushed and beard flecked with wine. “Come sit with Lysa. The poor girl looks lonely.”

Cersei halted, fingers tightening on the stem of her goblet.

Lonely, she thought. Let her eat another pie, then.

But Robert was already waving her over with a great, meaty arm, his grin broad and foolish. Jon Arryn stood beside him, blank-faced as ever, as if he too found the evening intolerable but had long ago given up resisting it. Lysa was blinking at her with wide, hopeful eyes.

Trapped.

Cersei approached the table with the poise of a queen and the soul of a prisoner.

She sat beside Lysa, every bone in her spine rigid.

Lysa smiled shyly, the kind of simpering expression that begged for approval. “The pears are delightful,” she said. “You should try one.”

“I’ll survive,” Cersei murmured.

Time began to stretch. The minutes unraveled into an endless skein of small talk, pastry crumbs, and Lysa Tully’s faltering voice. She spoke of her cats. Of the Maester’s latest tea. Of her dreams, as if they mattered. As if anyone should care.

Cersei sipped her wine. And sipped again.

She thought of stabbing herself with her own fork, just to escape.

Until—

A spark. An idea.

She turned toward a servant and spoke sweetly, almost lazily: “Bring Lady Arryn another cup of wine. The Dornish red. She likes the sweet kind, don’t you, Lysa?”

Lysa flushed pink. “Oh—I shouldn’t—”

“Nonsense. It’s your nameday. You deserve to enjoy it.” Cersei’s smile was all honey. “And I insist.”

The wine arrived, dark and glimmering like blood. Lysa took a hesitant sip, then another.

Let her prattle, Cersei thought, watching her over the rim of her own goblet. Let her loosen her tongue. There’s more than one way to silence a fool.

And slowly, beneath the flickering torches and the hum of courtly laughter, Lady Arryn began to unravel.

The music had shifted to something softer, a plucked harp winding like smoke through the hall. Lysa’s cup was nearly empty again. Her cheeks were flushed now, damp with wine and whatever fragile emotions clung to her bones.

“Do you think,” Lysa said, voice wobbling slightly, “that love ever truly survives at court?”

Cersei didn’t answer. She watched a drop of wine slide down the stem of Lysa's goblet and land on the silk of Lysa's gown. Burgundy on gold. Pretty, in its way.

Lysa leaned in, too close. Her breath smelled of pears and sour grapes. “Do you love him?” she asked.

Cersei’s eyes flicked up slowly.

“Your husband,” Lysa whispered. “Do you love Robert?”

The silence stretched. A breeze stirred the torches, shadows shifting along the stone walls. Somewhere behind them, a cup was dropped and shattered. Lysa flinched.

Cersei took another drink.

Love. That was the word girls used when they meant hunger, when they meant fear, when they meant power they’d never touch.

She thought of Jaime. Of golden hair and whispered secrets. Of heat behind closed doors. That wasn’t love. Not the kind Lysa meant.

“Yes,” she said finally.

Lysa let out a breath that was almost a sob. “I thought I felt love,” she said, eyes shiny. “I was stupid. You’re not stupid, are you, Cersei?”

Cersei didn’t reply.

Lysa reached for her wine again. Her hands trembled. “They all lie,” she muttered. “They all leave—”

Her voice broke. She looked down at her lap and let out a quiet, helpless sob.

Cersei resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

This was not a woman. This was a wounded bird, drunk and bleeding all over her nameday table. And it was becoming tiresome.

Cersei waved a servant over with a flick of her fingers. “More wine,” she said sweetly. “Lady Arryn is parched.”

Lysa drank.

And Cersei watched.

Lysa was halfway through her third goblet—no, fourth?—when the trembling began in earnest. Her words had long since dissolved into mumbles, more whimper than speech, and now her head lolled with each sway of the bench.

Cersei watched with the detached fascination of a cat toying with a dying mouse. She tilted her head just so, observing the way Lysa’s fingers clutched at the air, her ribbons askew, her bodice loosened ever so slightly. A noblewoman undone by pears and red wine.

They said we should be friends, Cersei thought with a curl of amusement. Perhaps we are now.

The hall bustled around them... music, laughter, servants weaving through crowds with trays of meats and honeyed almonds... but this moment was hers alone. She reached again for her own cup, the ruby liquid catching fire in the torchlight.

Then Lysa made a strange little noise and pitched sideways, her hand knocking against the table, goblet clattering to the floor. She might have crashed to the floor with it if not for the figure that caught her.

A broad hand, iron-stiff, caught Lysa by the arm.

Cersei blinked once.

Stannis Baratheon.

His jaw was set like stone. His mouth a thin, miserable line. He righted Lysa without ceremony, holding her upright with one hand at her elbow like she were a sack of barley he meant to carry up a keep stair.

“Enough,” he said, low and sharp.

Cersei didn’t move.

Stannis turned his eyes on her: cold, sea-gray, full of heatless fury. Not embarrassment, she noted. Contempt.

“You’ve had your fun,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “She’s in no state for this. I’ll take her back to her chambers.”

He paused.

“You will come too.”

It wasn’t a request.

Cersei raised an eyebrow. Her amusement cracked but only slightly. “I hadn’t realized I now answered to Lord Stannis.”

“She’s your responsibility tonight,” he snapped, and adjusted his grip on Lysa, who was murmuring something pitiful into his sleeve.

Cersei stood, slowly, letting the silks of her gown whisper around her like conspirators. She leaned closer, close enough to catch the salt of sweat behind his ear.

“As you wish,” she said, her voice a purr. “Lead the way, my lord.”

He didn’t look at her again. But the cords in his neck were tight.

So he’s still thinking of me, she thought, a wicked thrill rising in her belly. Even when he’s angry. Especially when he’s angry.

She followed, smiling as Lysa wept against the man neither of them would ever truly understand.

They moved through the dim corridors, footsteps muffled by thick tapestries and worn stone. No words passed between them. Only the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional, unsteady shuffle of Lysa leaning heavily on Stannis.

Cersei kept her eyes on the boy beside her.

Seventeen years, barely out of childhood, and yet in that rigid frame, in the cold fire behind those pale eyes, she saw more man than in her husband Robert, who lumbered through life like a drunken giant, roaring and stumbling through every room he entered.

Stannis carried himself like a blade: honed, sharp, and unforgiving. His body still clumsy, shoulders narrow and muscles not yet filled out, but his mind... unyielding. Fierce. A sentinel standing guard over duty and honor, a man forged by the cold iron of responsibility.

She admired him, in the way one admires a wild wolf: dangerous, unpredictable, not to be tamed easily.

Robert wastes what strength he has on wine and lust, she thought, while Stannis builds an empire inside himself, brick by brick.

The corridors twisted like a maze, echoing with the faint murmur of the court’s distant revelry, but here, in this shadowed passage, time slowed. She could almost feel the tension coiled beneath Stannis’s skin.

Cersei smirked to herself.

If she were to play her game well, this boy might be the sharpest tool she’d yet had to wield.

And for the first time that evening, a flicker of something like anticipation stirred inside her.

At last, the heavy door to Lysa’s chambers loomed before them.

Stannis’s hand tightened on the small of Lysa’s back as he pushed it open, the flicker of candlelight casting long shadows across the room.

“Put her to bed,” Stannis ordered, his voice flat but commanding, eyes locked on Cersei.

Cersei blinked, surprise flashing across her face. “Surely,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “that is the servants’ duty. I am not their nursemaid.”

Stannis’s gaze sharpened, cold as a blade. “You brought her to this state. You will bear the consequences.”

The weight in his words pressed on her like armor. For a moment, the courtly mask slipped. Cersei’s lips twitched with reluctant acknowledgment.

Without another word, she slid an arm under Lysa’s trembling one and helped guide the young woman toward the bed. The heavy silk of her gown whispered against the floor as she moved, every step measured, every motion deliberate.

As Lysa collapsed onto the mattress, Cersei smirked faintly, glancing over at Stannis. “Very well. But don’t expect this to become a habit.”

Stannis said nothing, only turned away, the hard set of his shoulders a quiet challenge.

Cersei caught herself wondering if this boy might yet teach her something about power.

Stannis led her back through the winding corridors, the flicker of torches casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to stretch and twist with every step. The air between them was heavy, charged with unspoken words and quiet defiance.

Cersei’s mind raced, turning over the moment in Lysa’s chambers... how he had dared to give her orders. That raw authority, so different from Robert’s drunken bellowing or Jaime’s easy charm, sent a shiver of something unfamiliar through her.

He dared to command me. To hold me to account.

As they neared the ballroom again, Cersei broke the silence with a soft, teasing voice. “Are you escorting me out of duty, or is this some rare kindness?”

Stannis glanced at her briefly, his eyes sharp and unforgiving. “This is not a request. It is an order.”

Cersei’s breath caught. He commands me. And I want him to.

The finality in his tone sent an unexpected thrill through her, sharp and electric. A wild, reckless excitement bubbled beneath her calm façade.

At last, she turned, following Stannis back into the blaze of torchlight and courtly chatter, her heart pounding.

He said nothing as they reached the threshold of the great hall.

Without so much as a glance, Stannis turned on his heel and walked away, his steps sharp, measured, final. No bow, no farewell. Just the straight-backed retreat of a boy trying too hard to be a man... or perhaps already one.

Cersei stood still for a heartbeat, watching his dark cloak vanish. The chill he left behind clung to her like mist. She should have been insulted.

Men don’t walk away from me, she thought, chin lifting. They chase. They beg.

But not this one. Stannis Baratheon. Younger than Robert, less golden, less loud. Yet somehow... heavier. Like a sword drawn halfway, showing just enough steel to promise blood.

What are you hiding under that dull armor, Stannis? she thought. And how much of it can I make you shed?

She turned back toward the hall, lips curved... not in warmth, but in calculation.

Suddenly, she saw Ser Barristan Selmy.

She hadn't noticed him at first, standing like a statue in the archway, but there he was—

Of course.

Even now, he plays at duty, she thought with a smirk, her gaze flicking from the old Kingsguard to the empty corridor where Stannis had gone. So proper. So miserable. So dull.

And yet he’d made sure someone was there. Someone to watch over her.

You detest me, don’t you, Lord Stannis? And still, you guard me like a shield.

Cersei felt a flicker of amusement curl in her chest like wine in the blood. It was almost endearing in its rigidity.

She folded her arms beneath her breasts, standing a little taller as she passed Ser Barristan, her silk skirts brushing the stone. So he thinks I need protecting.

The noise of the great hall pressed against her like a weight she no longer wished to bear. Cersei’s voice was low but firm as she turned to her guardian. “I think it’s time I return to my chambers.”

He inclined his head. “As you wish, my lady.”

They stepped out together into the cooler quiet of the corridor. As they moved away from the gathering, Cersei caught a glimpse of Stannis across the hall... his face unreadable, his posture rigid.

Barristan’s voice broke the silence. “Did you and Lord Stannis see to Lady Lysa? He told me you would be under his protection tonight, safe from court gossip. He wished the matter handled quietly.”

Cersei’s lips pressed into a thin line. Safe, she thought bitterly. Stannis’s idea of protection was a cold command, not a request.

“We did what was necessary,” she said shortly, stepping forward, eager to leave the hall behind.

Barristan gave a small, approving nod. “Good. Discretion is paramount.”

At last, Cersei entered her chambers and closed the heavy door behind her. With a sigh, she began to undo the clasps of her gown—an act she loathed performing alone. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling silently at her feet.

She eased onto her bed, the soft linens offering little comfort. Her thoughts drifted, weary and restless. Will Robert come tonight? she wondered, already knowing the answer. His visits had become as rare as his interest: fleeting, drunken, and empty.

Her mind shifted then to Stannis. The cold, stern brother who had dared to command her tonight. There was something in him that lingered in her thoughts far longer than she wished.

As she lay back against the cool sheets, a small, fierce thrill sparked in Cersei’s chest. He chose to be with me, she thought, heart quickening. Not by Robert’s command, not by duty or chance, but by his own will.

The very idea that Stannis had sought her out, had been alone with her in the quiet shadows of the castle, sent a flush of excitement crawling beneath her skin.

For all his coldness, there was a fire there. A challenge. And Cersei, with her sharp tongue and sharper ambition, was eager to fan its flames.

As sleep began to claim her, Cersei’s mind lingered on the evening’s encounter. The cold weight of Stannis’s gaze, the firm grip of his hand... it unsettled her, yet stirred a strange, dark pleasure deep inside.

There was a fire in their clash, a sharpness that cut through the dull ache of her days. For all her pride, she found herself craving the challenge he posed.

With a faint, knowing smile, she slipped into restless dreams, the memory of Stannis’s command echoing like a forbidden promise.

Chapter Text

“She’s with child again, gods help her. That makes three in two years.”

“No, two.”

“Either way, poor girl. He barely looks at her, and now she’s waddling through the halls like a goose.”

“I heard she cried through the whole bedding. And he was asleep before they even—”

A burst of laughter, stifled too late, rippled through the garden. Cersei did not turn her head. She sat still as marble, her hands folded in her lap, eyes closed against the pale spring sunlight.

The voices carried anyway, high and hushed, full of spite disguised as concern, envy wrapped in feigned pity. It was always like this: noble ladies with noble blood and nothing noble to say.

What a little world they live in, she thought. A court of caged birds, fluttering in silks and pearls, pecking each other bloody between sips of summerwine.

Another laugh, sharper this time. Someone whispered a name. A man’s name. And then—

“...Stannis Baratheon.”

Cersei’s lashes fluttered, but her face remained serene.

“He’s not much to look at, but… there’s something about him.”

“So stern. So serious. I’d wager he’s never kissed a girl.”

“Still, he’ll make a fine husband one day. I’d rather that than another soft-mouthed fool.”

A pause. Giggles.

“I wouldn’t mind a lord with shoulders like his. Even if he never smiles.”

Fools, Cersei thought coldly. They’d freeze in his bed and thank him for it. She didn’t open her eyes. Not yet. Not while her expression might betray how very much she was listening.

“He’ll need a wife soon,” one of the ladies purred, her voice thick with amusement. “Though the poor girl will need the patience of a septa.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

“They say one of the western lords have offered a daughter... plain as boiled oats, but with a strong womb, or so her mother swears.”

“I heard the Florents are eager too,” said another. “Their eldest is still unwed. A sharp-chinned creature with a neck like a heron. Might suit him, really.”

“Oh, I met her once!” someone chimed in. “She blinked at me for half an hour and called embroidery ‘witchwork.’ I’m sure she’d make a fine Lady Baratheon.”

More laughter. Cersei didn’t open her eyes.

Wretched hens, she thought, biting down the sudden flicker of annoyance.

Let them laugh. It was all peacock feathers and poisoned tongues. None of them meant what they said, or perhaps they did, and that was worse.

But still... the talk of Stannis stirred something unwelcome beneath her calm surface.

He was no prize. No charmer. And yet, the idea of him taking a wife stung.

They think they’re mocking him, she thought. But they’d all claw each other’s eyes out for the chance to bear his heir.

She sat, eyes closed, lips still, the sun warm on her skin and her thoughts colder than snow.

Cersei opened her eyes slowly, as if waking from a pleasant nap... though she’d heard every word of their silly little game.

“How charming,” she said, her voice low and lazy. “So many hopeful hearts fluttering over Lord Stannis. I hadn't realized desperation had become fashionable at court.”

Silence rippled through the garden like a shiver. She let it stretch, savoring it.

“Let me spare you some embarrassment,” she continued, her gaze sweeping across them like a judge weighing flawed offerings. “You’re not nearly highborn enough. Not clever enough. And certainly not beautiful enough.”

She turned to one of them... Lady Elenna, was it? Or Ellara? The name hardly mattered.

“Your father clings to a minor title like a beggar to his last copper. And you, Lianna... even the thickest rouge can’t hide a weak chin and eyes like boiled turnips.”

There was a strained laugh, quickly smothered. Cersei leaned in slightly, savoring the tension.

“Stannis may not be his brother’s equal in looks, but he has pride. He won’t be caught bedding some round-faced girl with hay in her hair and broth on her breath.”

She stood gracefully, brushing invisible dust from her skirts.

“And besides,” she added over her shoulder as she walked away, “he’d never marry a woman whose name I couldn’t remember by the end of the day.”

The hush she left behind was glorious.

The sound of hurried slippers on gravel followed her as she moved through the garden path, unhurried and regal. The women, like painted birds startled from their perch, scrambled to keep pace because that was what was expected of them. It was their duty, after all, to trail behind the queen like ribbons behind a banner.

Cersei had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Pathetic little creatures. They gossiped and giggled and curtsied, and still scurried after her like hounds after a bone. She could crush any one of them with a glance and they knew it. That was why they followed.

And yet, beneath her quiet amusement, something colder twisted in her chest.

Stannis.

She could still see the tension in his jaw, the way his mouth pressed into silence instead of softness. He was not like the others... he couldn’t be swayed by perfume or painted lips. But more than that, Cersei knew what honor meant to men like him. Once he was married, his sense of duty would bar her from his company. He would keep his distance.

The thought angered her.

She didn’t want him. Not really.

But she wanted the choice. She wanted his gaze to linger, his voice to falter. She wanted him to be hers to play with... or discard.

And a wife would ruin that.

The women still trailed behind her, chattering like sparrows, but she no longer heard them. Her mind had moved elsewhere.. onto a different kind of game.

She would have to delay it. Find the fault lines in the process, stretch the search, spread rumors, suggest more suitable matches from distant houses, ones with complications or politics that would drag the matter out for months. Perhaps she could raise a quiet question about the fertility of a particular candidate, or the honor of another's house.

She needed control. And control was not something she asked for. It was something she took.

A sudden thrill surged through Cersei’s veins... a wicked, intoxicating idea that seized her like wildfire. Why sit idle, waiting for some suitable bride to be paraded before Stannis? Why hand over the reins when she could grasp them herself?

She would don the mask of the obliging sister-in-law, the gracious hand guiding the search for Stannis’s wife. But beneath that mask, she would weave her own web ... steering the courtship, favoring some, crushing others beneath her subtle cruelty.

The brilliance of the plan struck her like a sharp blade, cutting through her boredom and frustration. To manipulate the fate of her brother’s future, to hold power over his choices - that was a delicious game she could not resist.

A slow, cruel smile spread over her lips. This would be her stage, her game, and she intended to outwit them all, leaving them tangled in the threads she spun.

She just had to make sure that power could fall into her hands.

Cersei moved quietly through the dim corridors of the Red Keep until she found Robert slumped over a cluttered table, parchment scattered before him like fallen leaves. His eyes were bleary, his face flushed from the night’s excess, yet he was stubbornly trying to work through the mess of paperwork.

Fool, she thought, smiling at him like a devoted wife.

Robert Baratheon, the conqueror, the rebel, the great war hero had tired of being king within mere weeks of seizing the throne. Not that he’d ever admit it. No, he’d laughed and drank and roared his way through council meetings, as if rulership were just another feast he could devour and leave behind.

But Cersei had been watching. Always watching.

He'd looked at the royal seal as though it were a shackle. He'd skimmed documents with all the care of a boar rooting through mud. He'd let others rule in his name—Jon Arryn, the Small Council, anyone willing to do the tedious work of governance—while he chased pleasures and ghosts in equal measure.

He wanted the crown, not the weight that came with it, she thought, her lips curving bitterly.

The truth was almost laughable. The man had bled the realm dry for a throne he didn’t even want to sit on. He had loved the fight, the glory, the rebellion... the taking. But once it was his, once he was king, all the gold in the Red Keep couldn’t buy back the thrill of conquest.

Cersei had known boredom when she saw it. He didn’t want to rule. He wanted to be adored. He didn’t want power. He wanted noise, women, wine.

And so he had handed the reins to others... to men who bored him, and to a wife he barely saw. A wife who had learned that while Robert had the crown, she could have the realm… if she was patient enough to take it piece by piece.

And she was.

She leaned against the doorframe, feigning boredom, her voice dripping with casual disdain. “Still drowning in those endless scrolls, I see. Do you even understand half of what you’re signing?”

Robert grunted, rubbing his temple. “Duty never ends, even if I’d rather not be here.”

Cersei smiled thinly, letting her words tease and prod. “If only you spent as much time ruling as you do in the taverns, maybe this kingdom wouldn’t be such a mess.”

He glanced at her, a lazy smirk forming. “And if you were less interested in causing trouble, maybe I’d get some peace.”

She stepped closer, her tone almost bored, but every word laced with sharp intent. “I’m just curious, Robert. Tell me... what’s so important about these papers? Anything worth my time?”

His eyes flickered with fleeting interest, and she knew she held him just enough, the perfect balance of distraction and manipulation. Robert, in his hungover haze, was hers to bend.

Cersei slid into the chair beside Robert, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the scattered parchments. Most were dull and bureaucratic, but then her gaze landed on a letter sealed with a lord’s sigil. An offer of marriage for Stannis from some petty northern house.

Ah. Yes.

Cersei had always assumed the offers would go to Robert... that was the natural order of things. He was the king, after all. The crown made even Stannis’s dull, brooding presence a political commodity. No one in the realm gave a damn about the man himself; they wrote because he was the king’s brother, because power trickled from the Iron Throne like wine from a broken cask.

They wrote to Robert, she thought with no small amount of satisfaction. Not to Stannis.

Her lips curled into a thin, mocking smile. “Another desperate lord trying to pawn off his daughter on Stannis. How charming.” She tapped the letter with a finger, eyes gleaming with cold amusement. “As if our brother needs some awkward, weak-willed girl dragging him down.”

Robert grunted, distracted by the hangover, but Cersei felt a spark of triumph. This was a thread she could pull.

Cersei raised an eyebrow, feigning boredom as she glanced at Robert. "Do you receive many offers for Stannis?" she asked, voice light but edged with something sharper.

Robert grunted, rubbing his temple. "Aye, more than you’d think."

She scoffed, letting a note of distaste slip through. "The king should not waste his time on such trivial matters. These are a woman’s concerns."

Robert blinked, surprised by the sudden interest. "Since when do you care?"

Cersei smiled, cold and calculating. "I will not have some unworthy woman join our family."

Robert smirked, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “So, you want to help me with this, then?”

Cersei masked the thrill rising in her chest with a practiced calm. “I suppose I could.”

How easy.

Robert had merely blinked at the stack of missives, groaned through his hangover, and waved them in her direction like they were some dull burden he couldn’t be bothered to carry. “Here,” he’d said, handing her the entire bundle without ceremony. “Have a bit of fun, Cersei. You like this kind of thing.”

He had no idea what kind of fun she intended.

She’d taken the letters with a smile and carried them from his solar as if they were sacred. In truth, she’d walked away with a fire smoldering behind her ribs. Not because she cared about marriage alliances or political balance.

No, she took the letters because in that moment, with Robert’s careless gesture, she’d been handed something far more delicious than parchment: control.

Control over Stannis.

Not as a man, gods no. There was no heat in him, no joy in his presence. But in the strings that bound him? The wires that pulled his arms, turned his head, stiffened his spine? She could wind those tighter and tighter, and watch him strain.

And that was pleasure.

Cersei carried the letters with a barely contained euphoria, her steps light as she moved through the corridors. Her ladies-in-waiting glanced at her curiously, whispering among themselves at the sight of Cersei bearing a stack of papers... an unusual burden for a queen.

One dared to ask, “Your Grace, do you need help with those?”

Cersei shook her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. “No, thank you. I prefer to be alone in my solar for a while.”

Her ladies exchanged puzzled looks but said nothing, trailing silently behind as Cersei vanished into her chambers, already eager to dive into her newfound task.

For hours, Cersei sat alone in her chambers, candlelight flickering and casting restless shadows over the scattered letters before her. Each one was an offering... an attempt by some lord or lady to bind their family to Stannis Baratheon through marriage. She sifted through them with sharp eyes, tasting the weight behind the delicate words.

Some were straightforward, penned by noble houses eager to claim a piece of the Baratheon legacy. Predictable alliances, safe and dull. Cersei scoffed inwardly - were these suitors so blind to think Stannis nothing more than a prize to be won? Others dripped with honeyed flattery, desperate to charm. It made her skin crawl.

Her gaze hardened on a few names: ladies with nothing to offer but faded titles, weak lands, and whispered scandals. Then there were the dangerous ones: proud, ambitious houses who dared to offer their daughters hoping to unsettle the delicate balance of power. Cersei’s lips curled in a cold smile.

This stack of letters was more than petitions: it was a battleground. And Cersei intended to wield it like a weapon, choosing carefully who would dare become the wife of Stannis Baratheon… if anyone at all.

The evening grew darker, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and faint perfume. The silence was broken by a sudden, sharp knock at the door. Her heart skipped, but she composed herself quickly.

The door swung open and Stannis stepped inside without ceremony. His posture was rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as if the muscles might crack. His eyes burned with restrained fury, and there was a hard edge in his voice when he spoke.

“You’ve been reading the marriage proposals,” he said, his voice sharp, edged with accusation.

Cersei would never admit it aloud—certainly not to Jaime, and gods no, not to Stannis himself—but there was something almost adorably righteous about Stannis when he was truly, incandescently angry.

Not the stiff-lipped disapproval he usually wore like old armor, nor the clipped, cold remarks that passed for conversation. No, she meant the moments when his composure cracked, when frustration curled in his lip, when his voice rose just slightly, like a man trying not to shout in a sept. Those were the moments she found... strangely delightful.

His jaw would tighten, nostrils flaring ever so slightly, and a muscle in his temple would twitch as if he were physically restraining himself from hurling a chair. He’d glare at her like a man drowning in reason while she danced circles around him with silk and poison, and gods, wasn’t that expression delicious?

So solemn, so proper, she thought with dark amusement, and yet so easily provoked. One sharp word, one look too long, and he bristles like a hound denied meat.

Cersei looked up, hiding her surprise behind a faint, calculating smile. “Of course. It’s only proper to take an interest in your affairs,” she replied smoothly, sliding a letter across the table.

Stannis’s glare hardened. “These proposals are not a game for your amusement. They decide the future of my house and of the realm!”

Cersei laughed, soft and mocking. “Oh, Stannis. I only want to help you,” she said, reclining slightly in her chair. “The king himself gave his blessing. Would you question his judgment?”

Stannis’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“You wouldn’t refuse the queen’s assistance, would you?” she added sweetly, her eyes gleaming. “That would be… discourteous. And terribly ungrateful.”

Cersei gestured gracefully to the chair across from her. “Sit, Stannis. You might as well hear what I’ve found.”

He hesitated—long enough for her to notice—then crossed the room in stiff silence and sat, his posture rigid.

“I’ve gone through the letters,” she said, tapping the stack with a manicured finger. “Most of these offers are insulting. Daughters of minor lords, backwater houses hoping to climb. You deserve better.”

Stannis frowned. “You care who I marry now?”

Cersei gave him a slow, unreadable smile. “Of course I do. You’re my brother-in-law. And your match will reflect on the royal family. I won't have just anyone wearing our colors.”

She tilted her head, letting her fingers trail idly along the edge of one of the opened letters, as though bored with it already. “Tell me, Stannis,” she said, voice silken, “what sort of woman do you actually want?”

Stannis stiffened, his mouth drawing into that tight, grim line she had come to recognize so well. He didn’t answer at once, and that hesitation filled her with sudden, wicked delight.

She smiled sweetly, feigning innocence. “Surely you’ve thought of it. Your ideal match. Or have you left that to Robert too?”

He narrowed his eyes, but the silence stretched on.

Cersei leaned back, watching him like a cat with a caged bird. It unsettles him, she thought with something close to euphoria. The mere idea of desire frightens him. Poor Stannis... so dutiful, so repressed. So easy to unravel.

Stannis’s jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said at last, voice clipped. “Marriage is not about desire. It’s about alliance. Stability. Duty. The rest is meaningless.”

Cersei gave a low, amused laugh. “Spoken like a man who’s never known anything but duty.”

She rose from her seat slowly, taking a step closer to him, letting her presence press just slightly into his space. “But tell me, Stannis... will duty warm your bed at night? Will stability whisper to you in the dark, ease the ache in your chest, the hunger in your blood?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed ahead, hard and unreadable, but she saw the tightening of his throat, the shift of breath.

She smiled, slow and knowing. “No. I didn’t think so.”

Stannis was silent for a moment too long. His eyes dropped to the letters on the table, as if hoping to find a shield among them. Finally, with a quiet, begrudging breath, he spoke.

“She should be… dutiful,” he said. “Pious. Wise in the running of a household. Not vain. Not loud. A woman who understands the weight of duty.”

Cersei raised an eyebrow, suppressing the laugh that almost escaped her throat. Of course. Of course that was his answer. Dutiful. Pious. A perfect little shadow with folded hands and eyes always cast down. A dull, gray ghost to haunt his gray life.

"How very thrilling," she murmured, voice rich with mock sweetness. "No wonder the court ladies are lining up."

Stannis stiffened, his mouth a hard line. “A wife is not a bauble to be paraded at feasts. She should serve her house, raise strong children, and keep to her place.”

Cersei nearly rolled her eyes. The urge was strong. “You speak of a servant, not a wife.”

“She must be worthy,” he said flatly.

Cersei’s lips curved in a faint, cruel smile. “Then you’ll have to search far, Stannis. Worthy women are in short supply, and those who claim to be are usually the dullest of all.”

She let her words hang there, like silk covering a dagger. His face gave nothing away but she saw it again, that flicker beneath the surface. That tension. That discomfort. And it thrilled her.

Cersei tilted her head, her golden hair catching the candlelight as she studied him. “And you’ve never thought,” she said slowly, voice smooth as Dornish silk, “that a wife might bring more than duty to your life? That she might lift the weight instead of adding to it?”

Stannis’s jaw tightened. “That isn’t—” he began, but the words faltered.

Cersei took a step closer, close enough that she could see the tension in his throat, the way he swallowed hard. Her fingers brushed his shoulder, light and deliberate. “Perhaps,” she said, almost idly, “you’ve grown so used to silence, you’re afraid of anything louder than your own thoughts.”

Stannis flinched at her touch.

“You deserve more than piety and plainness, Stannis,” she whispered. “Even if you don’t know it yet.”

Stannis’s eyes locked on hers, intense and unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Cersei let out a low, delighted laugh. But before she could speak again, the door swung open with a creak of old wood.

Jaime stepped into the room, his white armor gleaming even in the low light. His gaze swept across the chamber, casual but alert.

Cersei’s smile vanished in a heartbeat. She withdrew her hand from Stannis’s shoulder as if burned, turning with practiced grace. By the time Jaime’s eyes settled on her, she was already a few steps away, hands clasped behind her back, her face an innocent mask of mild curiosity.

“Brother,” she said, as though nothing at all had just happened.

Jaime blinked, clearly not expecting to find Stannis Baratheon alone with his sister, and certainly not so close. His eyes flicked between them, a flicker of something—suspicion, perhaps—passing across his face.

Cersei turned to him with a sweetness that was almost venom. “I was just offering my help to dear Stannis,” she said lightly. “The poor man is in need of a wife, and Robert is far too busy to mind the details.”

Stannis, his jaw tight, gave Jaime a short, stiff nod and muttered, “I’ll take my leave.” He strode past him and out the door without another word, the tension following him like a cloak.

Jaime watched him go, then turned back to his sister with a raised brow. “You’re matchmaking now?”

Cersei gave a casual shrug, sauntering back toward the table as if the air hadn’t just crackled with tension. “The last thing the realm needs is another Lysa Arryn simpering in court,” she said, lifting one of the discarded letters with a faint smirk. “If Stannis must marry, he’ll have someone at least tolerable to look at.”

Jaime gave her a crooked, mocking smile. “You just don’t want the competition.”

Cersei laughed, light and derisive. “From some country girl with a crooked nose and a talent for embroidery? Please.”

But as she turned her gaze back to the letter in her hand, the smile faded ever so slightly.

Chapter Text

The following weeks passed in a whirl of parchment, wax seals, and carefully wielded smiles. Cersei immersed herself in the business of matchmaking with the tireless grace of a woman born to rule. Morning to evening, she poured over the endless stream of proposals, each promising daughter more virtuous, more fertile, more politically advantageous than the last.

And she sabotaged them all.

Some she dismissed for being too eager, their fathers clearly angling for a crown by proxy. Others she deemed too proud, likely to provoke poor Stannis’s already fraying temper. A few, she rejected with an artful tilt of the head and a whisper: “Pretty, yes… but can you imagine her at court? She would wilt like a flower in salt.” It didn’t matter if the girls were clever, well-bred, or carried dowries that could ransom a city. None of them were right for Stannis.

Cersei ensured her reasons always appeared reasonable, always laced with concern for the kingdom and the Baratheon name. “He needs a wife who will match his strength,” she said serenely to the small council, “not some simpering doll.”

That part, at least, wasn’t entirely a lie.

The court, oblivious to the layers beneath her benevolence, fell into rapturous approval. The queen, they whispered, was tireless in her dedication. Noble. Wise. A true lioness of the realm.

“She’s doing the work of three maesters,” one old lord said admiringly.

“I’ve never seen her so diligent,” said a lady with envy in her voice and a trembling fan.

Robert, in his usual blissful ignorance, was simply pleased that his queen had found something to occupy her days that didn’t involve berating him.

“She’s finally behaving like a proper royal wife,” he boomed to Maester Pycelle one evening, wine-sodden and red-faced with cheer. “Always with the letters and parchment, locked away with Stannis. Seven hells, maybe she’ll make a decent match for the poor sod yet.”

Pycelle laughed obligingly.

Varys, ever too watchful, had offered her a wry compliment. “Such generosity of spirit, Your Grace. If only all rulers were so... involved.”

Even Jaime noticed. “You’re torturing him,” he said one night as she lounged on her chaise, sipping wine and thumbing through yet another scroll. “You know that, don’t you?”

She offered her twin a languid smile. “Nonsense. I’m helping.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, laughing under his breath. “The way you drag him around like a chained dog, always at your heels, snarling and helpless. It’s cruel even for you.”

Cersei tilted her head. “You think so little of me.”

“I think you haven’t told me the real reason you’re doing this,” Jaime said, his smile fading to something more curious. “You’ve never lifted a finger for anyone without a game behind it.”

She said nothing. Let Jaime think she was cruel for cruelty’s sake.

Though Cersei always felt she and Jaime were two halves of the same whole—twin-born, golden, inseparable—she knew, deep down, that there were battles he would never have to fight.

Not because he was stronger, or braver, or cleverer.

But because he was a man.

Doors that had opened for him had slammed shut in her face. Where he had been praised for his sword, she had been taught to smile and sit still. Where he had choices, she had expectations.

What would he know of the slow, burning fury that lived in her bones? Of how quickly disappointment had turned to disdain, and disdain to anger?

Robert had been a lesson, bitter and unforgettable. And she had been chosen for him, handed over like a prize sow, her beauty bartered for an alliance.

But Stannis… Stannis had been given to her. And now, with full control over Stannis’s future, she held something she’d never had with Robert: authority. Total, intoxicating authority. Every letter she burned, every girl she dismissed, every moment Stannis spent scowling under her watchful eye... it was all proof that she could shape a man’s fate when no one else bothered to.

It was about power.

And it was about rage.

Quiet, cold, and constant.

The kind that never went away.

And Stannis... stayed.

He stayed, because Robert told him to. Because honor told him to. Because walking away from her would make it look as if he had something to hide and Stannis Baratheon would sooner eat stone than admit weakness. So he endured. He suffered through her company like a man wading through fire and trying not to scream.

She wasn’t just delaying his marriage. She was owning it. Shaping it. And until she decided otherwise, Stannis Baratheon would belong to her game.

That was what gave Cersei the greatest satisfaction. Not the humiliation of her brother-in-law, not the absurdity of the whole situation. But the power. The power to decide who would bind his future to some unfortunate house, some girl with empty eyes and a good name. Every smile, every sigh from the ladies-in-waiting, every glance from the advisors — all said the same thing: she was the queen, and she decided who the Baratheons would hand their ring and their bed to.

But power, even as sweet as honey, always carried its shadow.

Cersei knew these games too well to pretend she didn’t know that every plan drew its opponent. Every move birthed a counter-move.

And then she heard the news.

One of her handmaidens, sweet-faced and sharp-eared, had returned from the kitchens with flushed cheeks and a tale worth far more than the spiced wine being poured for the arriving lords.

“Your Grace,” the handmaiden said, dipping into a curtsy, “Lord Frey’s daughter arrived in the city this morning. The servants say she’s been given rooms in the east wing. It’s likely she’ll be joining us for dinner tonight.”

Ah. Finally.

Cersei’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile... a smile edged with equal parts amusement and scorn.

Of all the fools, it was Lord Walder Frey who had the gall to try and bypass her, the queen who had claimed the reins of Stannis’s matchmaking. The audacity! The sheer, reckless arrogance of a man so blinded by his own ambition that he thought he could slip past her, sneak his daughter directly into Stannis’s path without her say-so.

Walder Frey. So desperate to claw upward he’d sell his daughters two at a time if he thought one might stick.

Cersei’s smile deepened. The idea of Lord Frey sweating in his drafty keep, counting out coin after coin in hope that one of his many daughters might land in a Baratheon’s bed was so delightfully pathetic she almost pitied him.

Cersei stepped out of her chambers with the unhurried grace of someone who knew the world revolved when she permitted it. Her gown, a deep crimson that whispered against the stone floor, shimmered like fresh-spilled wine. The light caught in her hair—golden and flawless—as if the sun itself bowed to illuminate her path.

Waiting just beyond the threshold stood one of the younger ladies of the court, hands folded demurely before her, eyes wide with carefully curated awe.

“Your Grace,” she breathed, her tone cloying with effort. “You look like one of the old Valyrian queens… too beautiful to be mortal. The gods must be green with envy.”

Cersei paused, eyes sliding over the girl with feline amusement. So transparent. So eager. But not without potential. She tilted her head, smile blooming like a secret.

“Is that so?” she said, her voice silken. “How charming of you. You look radiant too. Positively flushed with promise.”

The girl blinked, a blush rushing to her cheeks like a child who’d been handed sweets. “My queen, you’re too kind—”

“Kind?” Cersei laughed gently, resting one hand on the girl’s arm. “No, darling. I’m simply observant. And I reward those who are observant in return.”

The girl’s smile faltered slightly, as if the air had changed.

Cersei’s fingers lingered just a heartbeat too long, then fell away as she stepped past her, trailing rose and myrrh in her wake.

"Fetch the others,” she said smoothly, a glint of amusement in her voice. “It seems we have a new little lady in the castle. And it would be terribly rude not to offer her a proper welcome.”

Cersei could hardly contain the gleam in her eyes as she made her way toward the great hall, her gown sweeping over the polished stone like whispered laughter. Every step felt like a slow march toward something deliciously inevitable.

Stannis. And the girl.

Oh, how she longed to see them together: rigid, brooding Stannis, the very portrait of discomfort in a courtly setting, paired with a Frey girl bred for nothing but breeding. Cersei didn’t know which would falter first: the girl’s nerves, or Stannis’s already-thin patience.

She could picture it already... Stannis seated like a stone monument, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff as steel, barely managing to grunt a greeting. And opposite him, some pale, trembling Frey spawn, trying far too hard to charm a man who did not know the meaning of charm, much less how to return it.

Oh, it would be marvelous.

She imagined Stannis’s scowl deepening by the minute, his voice going colder with each forced exchange. She would watch it all unfold with a glass of wine and a mask of polite interest while inside, she’d be purring.

Let Frey spend his coin and play his little game. Let the girl try her best.

Stannis wouldn’t bend. Not to her. Not to anyone.

Because he belonged to Cersei’s game now.

And no Frey would ever win at her table.

After a brief glide through the winding corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast—her ladies fluttering behind her like nervous little birds—Cersei arrived outside the guest chambers with the slow, deliberate elegance of a lioness circling a lamb.

The door opened with a soft creak.

Inside stood the girl.

So this was Walder Frey’s offering. His tribute.

She was pretty, in the way milkmaids sometimes were.

Youthful, clear-skinned, with wide blue eyes and soft brown hair that hung in timid waves. A heart-shaped face, gentle and forgettable. A touch of Dornish curve to her figure, no doubt from some diluted branch of that sprawling family tree. No real flaws to speak of... and yet, nothing that demanded remembrance.

She was pretty the way a porcelain doll was pretty: breakable, ordinary, and utterly replaceable.

Upon seeing the Queen, the girl paled instantly, her hands dropping into a graceless curtsy that nearly toppled her forward. “Y-Your Grace,” she stammered, voice as thin as reed-paper. “I… I wasn’t told—”

“Clearly,” Cersei said smoothly, eyes scanning the girl from crown to slipper. “But here I am.”

The girl flushed pink from neck to ears.

There was silence. Thick, golden, gleaming silence. The kind that wrapped around the throat like velvet and squeezed.

Cersei stepped farther into the room, her gaze never wavering. “So,” she said at last, voice low and honeyed, “you’re the daughter Lord Frey sent to... what was it? Dine?”

The girl nodded meekly, lips parted but too frightened to form words.

Cersei smiled... slow, indulgent, with the faintest edge of cruelty. “How brave of him. And how very, very ambitious.”

The girl couldn’t answer. Her fear hung in the air like perfume, and Cersei breathed it in like roses.

“Relax,” she purred, brushing a speck of imaginary dust from her sleeve. “Tonight should be... memorable.”

Cersei let her gaze drop, slow and languid, taking in every detail of the girl's attire. The dress was finely made... far too fine, really, for someone of her station. Rich Myrish lace at the cuffs, delicate embroidery along the bodice, and a necklace of polished river pearls that was just ostentatious enough to scream desperation.

Oh, Walder Frey had spent. Perhaps not enough to buy a crown, but more than enough to embarrass himself. Cersei could almost picture the old fool squinting at silks by candlelight, barking at seamstresses and counting his coins like they were soldiers marching to battle. All to turn one of his countless daughters into something presentable. Into bait.

The girl stood still under Cersei’s examination, like a bird convinced stillness would save her from the hawk. It only made her more entertaining.

Cersei’s smile returned, sweet as Arbor gold and twice as false. “Such lovely fabric,” she said, reaching out to brush the sleeve between her fingers. “Your father must value you very highly.”

The girl flushed again, unsure whether it was an insult. It was, of course. But she wasn’t clever enough to know how.

Cersei leaned in, voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “I can tell we’re going to be such good friends.”

The girl blinked in confusion. “Y-your Grace?”

Cersei’s eyes glittered with amusement. “You’ll see,” she said, already turning toward the door. “It’s going to be a fascinating evening.”

Cersei clasped her hands loosely before her, the picture of regal interest, and offered the girl a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“So, tell me,” she said smoothly, “do you find King’s Landing to your liking?”

The girl brightened at once, clearly grateful to be asked something so harmless. “Oh, yes, Your Grace. It’s larger than I imagined, and the Red Keep is so—”

Cersei had already stopped listening.

“—and the view from the tower is just breathtaking,” the girl was saying, voice hopeful.

Cersei blinked slowly, then tilted her head, smile unwavering. “I’m sure it is.”

She was already imagining the look on Stannis’s face. The narrowed eyes. The silent, seething indignation.

She couldn’t wait.

Cersei turned gracefully from the window, the skirts of her gown whispering across the stone floor like a warning. The Frey girl, pale, nervous, clinging to what little composure she had—stood stiffly in place, still unsure whether to curtsy again or flee entirely.

Cersei didn’t ask her name.

Names were for people. The girl was an opportunity, a prop, a delicate glass bauble to be dangled before Stannis until he cracked beneath the weight of humiliation.

“You’ll dine with me today,” Cersei said smoothly, leaving no room for refusal. “And tomorrow we’ll ride in the gardens. The court should see you, don’t you think?”

The girl blinked. “I—Your Grace, that would be—”

“Lovely,” Cersei finished for her, voice sugar-sweet. “Yes, I thought so.”

Her ladies, ever-attentive and sharp-eyed, hovered nearby like elegant vultures. They caught the game at once. A flicker of amusement passed between them. One of them stepped forward with practiced gentleness.

“We’ll have her fitted into something flattering before supper, Your Grace,” she murmured. “Something Dornish, perhaps. With all that lace Lord Frey seems so fond of.”

Cersei’s smile deepened. “Perfect. We must show her off properly.”

The girl smiled, though it faltered at the edges. She was too well-bred—or too frightened—to decline the Queen’s sudden generosity.

Cersei stepped forward, tucking a golden curl behind the girl’s ear with mock affection. “You and I are going to be such good friends.”

And just like that, the girl was claimed: draped in silk, paraded at Cersei’s side, a lamb led lovingly to slaughter.

After few hours, just as Cersei expected, the girl had grown quieter, more cautious, worn down by the endless stream of pleasantries, compliments, and courtly ritual she barely understood. Her gown, too elaborate for her bearing, now sat stiff and wrinkled from nerves and the weight of expectation.

At last, while sipping cautiously at the wine she clearly didn’t know how to hold, the girl cleared her throat and dared to speak.

“Your Grace,” she said, too quietly.

Cersei turned to her with a tilt of the head, golden curls catching the firelight like a crown.

“I was wondering…” the girl fidgeted with the stem of her goblet. “What is Lord Stannis like?”

The silence that followed was electric.

Around them, the ladies-in-waiting all perked up with the energy of a tourney horn sounding. One even gasped a little, then covered her mouth with embroidered silk. The rest exchanged barely concealed glances, their smiles curving in secret delight.

Cersei, meanwhile, felt something spark low in her chest: euphoria laced with venom. She hid it well. Her voice, when it came, was smooth as velvet, touched with faux fondness.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, “Lord Stannis is… quite the man.”

She rose from her seat, trailing her fingers along the rim of the table as if recounting a memory too sweet to speak plainly.

“Tall,” she began, “with a strong jaw and eyes that could pierce steel. So serious. So… intense. You’ll find he doesn’t waste words. Or smiles. It makes every glance from him feel like a treasure.”

The girls around her began to giggle. Not sweetly. Not kindly.
Cersei’s lips curled in a soft, secretive smile as she watched the Frey girl’s shoulders stiffen, her blush deepening.

“And he’s so dutiful,” Cersei added, almost in a purr. “He carries the weight of the realm in that furrowed brow of his. Truly, I envy any woman who earns more than a few of his words.”

One of the ladies whispered loudly enough to be heard, “Yes, I hear he even spoke an entire sentence last week.”

Cersei joined in the laughter, slow and rich.

She placed a hand gently on the Frey girl’s shoulder. “But don’t let the court’s teasing sway you. Power is its own kind of beauty. And Lord Stannis… has so very much of it.”

The girl, now pale as milk, nodded mutely.

But the afternoon did not end there.

"Have you ever lived among royals before?" one lady asked, all faux sweetness.

"Tell us," another chimed in, "what advice did your lord father give you before sending you here?"

"Did he say what he hopes you'll gain?" Cersei asked silkily, a smile fixed just wide enough to draw blood.

The girl answered where she could, stumbled where she couldn’t. Every word weighed, measured, recorded.

And Cersei listened. Carefully.

Because somewhere beneath the nerves and the lace, there might be ambition. There might be strategy. And if there was, Cersei Lannister would find it first.

Suddenly, a question came so innocently it might have passed unnoticed if it hadn’t landed like a stone in still water.

“Is Dragonstone a large and beautiful castle?” the Frey girl asked, her voice soft, hopeful.

Cersei blinked, then let out a low, amused laugh. “Beautiful?” she echoed, lips curling. “Oh, my sweet girl… Dragonstone is many things, but beautiful is not one of them. It’s a pile of black stone on a miserable rock, forever soaked in wind and ash.”

The girl gave a small, polite smile, either not sensing the sarcasm or too nervous to challenge it. “Perhaps,” she ventured, “if there were children there… it would feel warmer. Happier.”

The laughter died in Cersei’s throat like a blade catching in bone.

A beat of silence.

Her ladies-in-waiting shifted slightly, sensing the sharp turn in the air. One reached for a goblet. Another began chattering suddenly about the embroidery on the Frey girl’s sleeves. A third asked if anyone had seen the swan pies being prepared in the kitchens.

But Cersei said nothing at first. She sat very still, her gaze fixed on the girl.

Inside, her thoughts were a thunderclap.

Children.

Her womb, still stubbornly empty. Her body, still not carrying the child the court expected. The memory of Robert, drunk and groaning above her, brought a flash of bile to her throat. The times with Jaime... hurried, secret, watched too closely now by Kingsguard eyes loyal to their oaths, not her will.

How could she hope to shape her dynasty if she could not even carry it?

And now here was this slip of a girl—Frey-blooded, irrelevant—murmuring about children and cozy castles as if it were that simple.

Cersei allowed herself a moment of silence, gazing out through the narrow window where the last traces of sun were bleeding into dusk. The laughter of her ladies had faded behind her, the scent of spiced wine and lavender still clinging to the air.

Yes, it amused her to toy with the girl. Yes, it thrilled her to play puppeteer over Stannis Baratheon's marital prospects. But beneath the satisfaction, beneath the layers of pride and venom, something colder pulsed at her core.

She knew the truth.

If Stannis married—truly married, and not just in name—and if his wife gave him heirs, strong and legitimate, then the game would change entirely. He would be more than Robert’s dour brother. He would be a Baratheon with a family, a household, a future. A claim. A threat.

And Cersei, with no trueborn heir to show for her marriage to the king, would be... less.

Her father reminded her of it constantly. Every letter from Casterly Rock was a blade tucked in velvet... urging, warning, demanding.

This wasn’t just a game. Not really.

She needed Stannis under her thumb, alone, glowering in silence, without the softening weight of a wife or the dangerous hope of a child. He must remain a blade without a hilt... dangerous, but easily pointed.

And if she had to ruin a few foolish girls along the way?

So be it.

Cersei forced a smile, the kind that did not reach her eyes.
“Oh, I’m sure you’d make it very warm,” she said silkily. “But let’s not think too far ahead, shall we? Some stones are better admired from afar.”

The girl nodded quickly, unsure if she’d pleased or offended.
Cersei leaned back in her chair, drumming one lacquered nail against the wood. Her ladies-in-waiting continued their chatter, louder now, brighter, trying to steer the mood like sailors in a storm.

But the storm was inside the queen and it was growing.

That storm would need somewhere to break.

And as fate would have it, it had found its target.

Chapter Text

The chambers smelled of roses and spiced wine, the firelight dancing over silk and gold. Cersei sat poised like a queen painted in the pages of some holy book, watching as the Frey girl swayed slightly, laughing too loudly at something no one had said. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy... she was drunk, not dangerously so, but enough that her natural nerves had melted into a hazy, uncertain compliance.

“Another sip,” Cersei murmured, holding the goblet just out of reach until the girl leaned forward, obedient. “It warms the blood. You’ll need it tonight.”

The girl nodded, clutching the cup with both hands. Her hair had been brushed until it gleamed, pinned with little golden stars. Her dress, laced tighter than necessary, emphasized a figure that was pretty enough but already stiff with discomfort.

Just then, the heavy door creaked open. A young woman—one of the Frey girl’s companions—stepped inside, her face pale and alarmed. She took one look at her mistress and gasped. “My lady! You’re—your Grace, forgive me, but she—she’s not—”

“She’s radiant,” said one of Cersei’s own attendants, rising smoothly and stepping between the girl and her companion. “Isn’t she?”

“She’s flushed,” the companion said in a rush. “She’s—she shouldn’t drink so much, she—”

“She’s nervous,” Cersei said sweetly, rising from her seat like a vision from a song. “Wouldn’t you be, if you might meet your future husband tonight?”

Another of her handmaidens tittered. “It’s only wine. Better that she be warm and smiling than cold and mute like—”

“—like someone else we know,” another one of her ladies finished with a sly smile.

The Frey companion looked betwen them, uncertain, lips parted as if to arguebut then she caught Cersei’s eyes. Calm and cold as old coin.

“Your lady is well prepared,” Cersei said. “And she’ll do wonderfully.”

The Frey girl hiccupped delicately and giggled.
Cersei stepped closer, adjusting a strand of the girl’s hair behind her ear with a careful hand. “Come, my lady,” she said. “Let’s make an entrance.”

And like a lamb to the altar, she led the girl from the room, her ladies following close behind, masks of sweetness hiding the sharpness beneath.

The halls of the Red Keep echoed with the hum of voices and the distant clatter of goblets. As Cersei led the Frey girl through the torchlit corridors toward the grand dining hall, she didn’t bother to glance back to see if the girl was keeping up. She could hear the flutter of her skirts and the uneven rhythm of her steps well enough.

Just as she’d predicted, the feast was not an intimate one. The doors opened to reveal a hall alive with warmth, laughter, and far too many people.

Robert, in his usual manner, had filled the table with knights, lords, and sycophants... he couldn’t stand silence, and he despised the idea of a meal without an audience. He had the appetite of a bear and the manners of one, too.

Cersei paused for a moment in the threshold, letting the golden light spill over her and her entourage. Her presence commanded attention. Heads turned. A few conversations faltered.

The Frey girl faltered as well, blinking into the brightness of it all, clutching her skirts like a child lost in a market.

Cersei leaned just slightly toward her without looking. “Smile,” she murmured. “You’re being watched.”

The girl obeyed, a strained little gesture that barely reached her eyes.

Good, Cersei thought, sweeping forward like a queen in full bloom. Let them all see her. Let them all guess. Let the lioness bring forth the lamb and let the wolves in the room wonder what game was being played.

Cersei slid gracefully into her seat beside the king, her golden gown catching the candlelight like polished armor. Every movement was measured, elegant, composed. She greeted the assembled guests with a tilt of her head, her smile warm but veiled like sunlight glinting off cold steel.

Robert eyed her sideways, still tearing meat from a roasted leg with the same graceless fervor he gave to everything. He chewed slowly, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and frowned.

“You’re in a fine mood,” he muttered low enough for only her to hear, suspicion curling beneath his words like smoke. “Should I be worried?”

Cersei turned to him, all serene confidence. “Can a queen not simply enjoy a pleasant evening, husband?” she replied sweetly, pouring herself a goblet of wine. “The food is good, the company… amusing.”

Robert grunted. “You never like the company.”

She gave him a look over the rim of her cup.

“Tonight’s company may surprise you.”

He studied her for a moment longer, eyes narrowed beneath his heavy brow, then returned to his food with a shrug.

Just as Cersei had anticipated, Stannis was at the feast, stiff-backed and stone-faced, seated a few chairs down, his presence a thundercloud amid the laughter and clinking goblets. He wore a somber cloak of Baratheon black and gold, the stag embroidered with no flair, no vanity. He looked as if the idea of festivity itself offended him.

Cersei cast him a fleeting glance, her golden lashes lowering like a curtain as her lips curved in satisfaction. Of course he came. Stannis never shirked duty... no matter how much he might loathe the company. He would sit through this, grim and silent, because that was what was expected of him.

Because rules bound him like chains, and he would never be the man to break them.

The Frey girl, flushed from wine and compliments, with her hair slightly mussed and gown too lavish for her bearing, was staring at him with unabashed wonder. Her wide eyes tracked his every movement, and even across the room Cersei could see the hungry little smile she tried to suppress.

Stannis noticed. How could he not? His eyes flicked toward her, then away, then back again — not out of interest, Cersei thought with cruel amusement, but as if he were trying to solve a riddle he hadn’t asked for. His brows drew together. He reached for his goblet, changed his mind, then settled on tearing a piece of bread with the deliberation of a man disarming a trap.

Cersei watched it all with silent delight.

How uncomfortable he looked. How out of place, despite his title, his blood, his name. The poor girl probably thought him brooding and noble like some tragic hero in a song. And Stannis… gods, he could barely stand the attention.

Cersei leaned back in her chair, letting her wine swirl gently in its goblet. Across from her, Robert was watching her out of the corner of his eye, no doubt sensing her good mood and growing suspicious.

Stannis’s jaw tightened with every passing moment, his knuckles pale around the stem of his goblet. The candlelight did little to soften his scowl. He hadn’t touched his food. He never did when nerves or annoyance had taken hold and tonight, he was clearly gnashing both between his teeth.

Cersei saw it coming before he even moved. That barely-contained rigidity, the flick of his gaze toward the girl, then toward the exits, then back to his untouched plate like a soldier weighing every escape route before the battle truly broke.

And then, he stood.

The scrape of his chair on stone drew glances. He muttered something about fresh air, gave no one time to object, and turned on his heel with all the grace of a man storming off a battlefield. His cloak billowed behind him like a shadow.

The Frey girl blinked, startled. Her wine-blushed face twisted with concern, then something close to desperation. She began to rise, clutching the table for balance.

“Perhaps I should—”

“No, no, sweetling,” one of her companions whispered, seizing her wrist with soft but firm fingers. “Let the lord have his breath. You’ll see him soon enough.”

Another lady gave a breathy laugh. “He’s just overwhelmed. Men like him aren’t used to such beauty all at once.”

Cersei watched from her place beside Robert, her smile cool and unreadable. She didn’t need to stop the girl herself... the court would do it for her. She sipped her wine slowly, savoring the taste, the warmth in her throat, the soft ripple of whispers that followed Stannis’s departure.

Let the girl wonder what she had done wrong. Let her worry. Let her stew in it.

After all, wasn’t that what courtship was for?

Cersei didn’t move at first. She let him walk, one step, then another — rigid, seething, noble in that infuriating Baratheon way. But something coiled inside her refused to release him just yet.

Not him. Not tonight.

She rose, smooth as poured silk, and followed.

The night air outside Maegor’s Holdfast was sharp, cool against Cersei’s skin as she swept through the shadowed corridor. Her gown whispered like silk secrets over the stone as she walked, unhurried, composed though inside, she burned with anticipation. She had known Stannis would bolt. The girl had been unbearable enough sober. Drunk, she was a spectacle and exactly the kind Stannis loathed.

She found him in one of the lesser courtyards, half-shrouded in torchlight. He stood alone by the balustrade, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, the veins in his temple visibly pulsing. A storm in flesh.

“Stannis,” she said, her voice soft, all velvet and false concern. “You left so suddenly. I was worried.”
He didn’t turn. Not right away. But when he did, his eyes blazed with such fury it stopped her for a beat. She’d struck a nerve. Deeply.

“You?” he bit out. “Worried?”

He took a step forward. Then another. His hand shot out wrapping around her wrist like a vice. The gesture was full of restraint, but the tremble in his grip betrayed him.

“I know what you did,” he said, low and savage. “You poured wine down that girl’s throat and paraded her around like some caged animal. You humiliated her.”

Cersei’s lips parted in a breathless little scoff. “She’s a Frey. That’s practically her purpose.”

Stannis clearly didn’t know what to say to her. His mouth tightened, as if every word he considered turned to ash before it could leave his tongue.

Cersei tilted her head, golden curls catching the torchlight, and took a slow, deliberate step closer to Stannis. Her voice was low, warm with amusement.

“Tell me, Stannis… does my interest offend you?”

He let go of her wrist like it had burned him.

And in a way, perhaps it had.

“It’s treason,” he said, eyes burning. “What you’re saying it’s treason. You’re the Queen. My brother’s wife. This—this isn’t a game.”

Cersei’s laughter came like velvet-wrapped bells — soft, indulgent, and edged with scorn.

“Oh, Stannis,” she said, letting his name linger like honey on her tongue. “Caring is not treason. Curiosity is not betrayal. You’re my brother-in-law. Why shouldn't I be invested in your… future?”

She moved still closer, until she could smell the sharp salt of his breath, the bitterness of his fury.

“You think I care about your pride?” she whispered.

He stiffened, visibly unsettled. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again — words struggling to form under the weight of disbelief. Finally, his voice came, rough and hoarse.

“Seven hells, you’re a viper,” he growled. “Coiling through every conversation, poisoning every room you enter.”

Cersei’s eyes glittered, but she said nothing and Stannis looked at her as if she were something unholy something both fascinating and deeply unnatural. He backed a step away, but Cersei didn’t follow.

She merely smiled.

He turned away without a word, fists clenched, shoulders rigid.

Cersei watched him go, still smiling.

And that wasn't even the end of the fun.

She had barely stepped back into the golden light of the hall when she heard the sharp hitch of breath — a muffled sob just beyond the carved columns. She turned, and there the Frey girl was, trembling at the edge of the corridor like a wounded bird, her gown wrinkled, her eyes rimmed red with tears that had clearly been held in too long.

“Your Grace,” the girl choked out, curtsying clumsily as tears streamed down her cheeks. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—he just—he wouldn’t even look at me!”

Cersei took a graceful step forward, her expression folding into a perfect mask of concern. “Sweetling,” she murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from the girl’s wet cheek. “Whatever’s the matter?”

The girl burst like a broken dam. “My father sent me here with new dresses and jewelry and a dowry chest, he said I had to be perfect, he said if I just made a good impression I’d be—be Lady Baratheon. He spent so much, and I—I tried, I smiled, I said nothing wrong, I even laughed when no one else did, and he still—he still left!”

Cersei placed a soothing hand on the girl's back, drawing her in close like a sister or a mother might. Her voice was soft, silken. “Men can be cold. Especially noble ones who think they carry the world on their shoulders. But you were radiant tonight, truly.”

The girl hiccupped a sob, clinging to the queen’s silken sleeve. “Do you really think so?”

Cersei gave her a slow, gentle smile. “Of course I do. And I’m sure Lord Stannis noticed. He’s simply... difficult. He notices everything and says nothing.” She cupped the girl’s chin lightly. “You did everything right, dear.”

The girl nodded, still crying. Cersei held her a moment longer before gently passing her off to one of her ladies with a meaningful look.

As the girl was led away, Cersei turned back toward the feast, the sound of harp strings floating through the air. Her smile returned... not the soft one from before, but the cold, satisfied curve of victory.

That had been easy. Almost too easy.

And oh, how satisfying it was to win a game where the other players didn’t even know the rules.

But... as the echoes of Stannis’s fury still rang faintly in her mind, and the salt-streaked face of the Frey girl faded into the shadows behind her, Cersei barely had time to relish her triumph before Robert’s careless stride and grinning face reminded her that in this game, victory was never unchallenged for long.

He found her near the foot of the hall’s grand stair, his heavy footfalls unmistakable even over the din of music and chatter. He smelled of roasted meat and Arbor red, and he grinned as though the world had just gifted him some marvelous joke.

“Well,” he said, waving a meaty hand toward the shadows where the Frey girl had fled. “That one’s a weeper, isn’t she?”

Cersei didn’t answer at first, her features carved into a mask of composed amusement. She tilted her head, letting him continue... and he did, of course. Robert always did.

“I thought Stannis might stomach her for the sake of peace and duty,” he went on, tone careless, “but by the gods, I’ve seen less salt in a storm. No, he needs someone with some fire, not a mouse with wet eyes.”

He leaned in slightly, smelling of wine and sweat, his voice dipping into a conspiratorial murmur.

“Lucky for all of us,” he said, lips curling into a smirk, “I’ve found someone better. A real gem. I’ll introduce you soon. You’ll see. She’ll knock your pretty slippers off.”

And with that, he clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder — far too familiar — and wandered off down the corridor, humming a bawdy tune under his breath.

Cersei stood motionless, her fingers tightening around the folds of her gown until her knuckles ached white beneath the gold rings. Her jaw clenched, but her face held steady, as though sculpted from Lannister gold. Only her eyes betrayed her, flaring with something sharp and furious just beneath the calm.

He had what?

He would what?!

Introduce her to a girl for Stannis as though her approval meant nothing?! As though he, in his drunken arrogance, could just pluck a bride from the air and expect her to smile and nod?!

Her fury bloomed like wildfire beneath her skin. Not because of the girl. She would crush any girl. But because he thought he could still control the board.
He could drink and boast and play matchmaker like some fat, retired knight with a hobby. And still believe he held power.

Cersei turned away slowly, her smile returning... tight-lipped, cold, dangerous.

Let him try. Let him bring his gem.

She would see to it that whoever Robert placed before her would burn to ash before they ever reached Stannis.

Chapter Text

Cersei Lannister walked like a storm through the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, her silks whispering with menace, her face carved from porcelain and wrath. Her ladies-in-waiting trailed behind her at a safe distance, trading cautious glances but offering no words. They had seen her like this before. The quiet, simmering version of the queen, when her fury became more dangerous than shouting ever could.

She ignored them all.

The torchlight flickered against the red stone walls, but she felt nothing of its warmth. She could still hear Robert’s voice, smug and careless, echoing in her skull.

As if he had done her a kindness. As if he still held the reins.

She burst into her chambers and slammed the door behind her, the sound ricocheting through the empty room. The fire in the hearth had gone low, casting long shadows. She crossed to the sideboard in three quick strides, grabbed a decanter, and poured herself a goblet of strongwine nearly to the brim.

“Better,” she muttered, mockingly, and took a long, furious gulp.

The wine burned down her throat, but it did nothing to soothe the fire inside her. Her hand tightened around the stem of the goblet as she stared into the darkening mirror across the room.

It was always like this. Robert dismissing her. Jaime absent. Her father sending his threats dressed up as advice. And Stannis… gods, Stannis, skulking through court with that glowering face, stiff as a corpse in armor. The thought of him marrying, of him fathering children, made her stomach turn.

She drank again, deeper this time.

If Stannis found a suitable wife he would become more than a shadow at court. He’d become a rival. Her hold over the Baratheon name would crack. And with no child in her belly… nothing to tie her further to power…

She set the goblet down hard enough to make the wine jump.

Why was it so easy for others? Frey could throw daughters at her without consequence. But she had to scheme and claw and drink just to hold on to what little control she had left.

Her ladies did not come in. No one dared.

She stood for a long time, staring at the flames, then finally stripped down to her shift and climbed into the enormous, empty bed. The wine had dulled her limbs but not her thoughts. They turned, over and over again: Stannis. Robert. Her father. The girl crying. The child she could not conceive. Jaime.

She lay awake as the fire died.

Her crown was still on the table.

And then she saw her.

Her mother.

Joanna Lannister sat in a golden chair near the hearth, her hands folded delicately in her lap, her face serene and untouched by death. Her hair was pulled back in the style of noble ladies, her eyes gentle, warm, and distant. The way Cersei remembered her in her earliest, foggiest memories.

“Mother,” Cersei whispered, a child’s voice breaking through her queen’s mouth.

But Joanna didn’t look at her.

Instead, she looked down.

At the child in her arms.

Tyrion.

The grotesque, swaddled thing squirmed against her breast, his oversized head resting against Joanna’s chest like a stone. She was holding him, cradling him. Smiling.

Cersei’s breath caught. “No.”

She moved forward, her steps faster now, heels clicking over marble. “No. That’s wrong. That’s not how it was.”

Joanna didn’t respond. She stroked Tyrion’s twisted little head with a mother’s touch — the same touch Cersei had longed for. The same warmth she’d been denied.

Cersei stopped in front of them, trembling with fury.

“I was your daughter,” she hissed. “I am your daughter.”

Still, Joanna did not look at her.

Cersei tried to scream, to shake her, to claw the baby from her arms, but her limbs wouldn’t move. She was rooted to the stone, trapped in silence while her mother’s love poured out to the wrong child.

“No,” Cersei gasped. “He killed you. Not me. He—”

Tyrion turned in Joanna’s arms. His mismatched eyes found Cersei’s.

He smiled.

She woke with a cry.

The bedclothes were twisted around her like a noose. Her skin was slick with sweat despite the cool dawn air seeping through the tower window. The fire had gone cold. She sat up slowly, her breath still ragged, pressing a hand to her chest.

It was just a dream. Only a dream.

But her heart was pounding like battle drums.

She reached again for the wine.

Anything to forget the look on her mother’s face.

But the wine did not soothe her as it once had.

It burned, dull and heavy in her belly, coiling like a serpent rather than silencing her thoughts. Where it should have brought warmth, it stirred unrest. Each sip only deepened the ache behind her eyes, made her nerves hum louder beneath her skin. It no longer numbed her fears…it sharpened them.

She poured another goblet anyway, hands steady despite the storm inside her.

If she could not sleep, then let the wine keep her company in the dark. Let it remind her what still had to be done. Let it whisper, like venom, all the things she did not dare say aloud.

Cersei felt lonely.

And her loneliness was not the kind born of neglect, but of elevation. From the moment she could walk the halls of Casterly Rock without a nursemaid at her side, Tywin Lannister had made one thing excruciatingly clear: she was not like the others. She was better.

Better than the daughters of lesser lords with their needlework and soft hands. Better than the girls who giggled and danced and dreamed of knights. Even better, sometimes, than Jaime though that was a thought she rarely allowed herself, for he was half of her, and the only softness her heart would ever allow.

Tywin had taught her to look down, always. Down on the weak. Down on the emotional. Down on those who mistook love for power. Her pedestal was gilded, yes… but cold, narrow, and always alone.

There were no equals at the top.

The courtiers smiled too much and whispered behind closed doors. The ladies at court followed her like sunflowers toward a sun, but none dared step too close. And how could they? She had no peers, only pawns. Every compliment was a move. Every smile, a mask. Every friendship, a weapon waiting to be turned.

Her father had taught her to command respect, not love. He believed love was weakness, a thing for fools and Septas. So she learned not to need it. Or at least, she told herself she didn’t.

And yet… in the dark hours, with no crown on her head and no courtiers watching, the silence in her chambers wrapped around her throat like a golden noose. Even Jaime couldn’t reach her there.

She was the lioness.

And so she lay there, still as stone beneath silken sheets, the taste of wine bitter on her tongue, her mother’s face fading like a shadow from her dreams. But the cold weight in her chest did not fade. It never did.

Sleep would not come, not truly and in its absence, plans bloomed like thorns in her mind.

She needed time.

Time to conceive a child. Jaime’s child. Wrap herself in the protection of pregnancy before the court dared question her legacy again. Time to make her claim unassailable. And to buy that time, she would have to slow the march of Stannis’s future bride, whoever she might be. The Frey girl had been an amusement, but now even her games had consequence.

What had begun as a private pleasure, a cruel little pastime to toy with her humorless brother-in-law, had shifted. No longer a game… now a battle of timing, blood, and life.

The future was a knife at her back. And if she didn’t move first, it would be Stannis or Robert who held the hilt.

Suddenly, Cersei sat upright in her bed, the sky beyond her windows bleeding into the pale blue of dawn. Her head throbbed dully from the wine, but the bitterness that coiled in her stomach came from somewhere deeper.

She had made her decision.

Until she bore Jaime’s child she would play the loving wife. She would smile when Robert roared with laughter, let him paw at her if he wished, and flatter his hunting stories like some docile, golden thing. And she would watch Stannis more closely than ever before, needle her way into his confidence, perhaps even into his counsel, until she held him by the throat without him knowing it.

Both tasks turned her stomach.

To act soft and yielding for Robert was one humiliation. To feign warmth toward humorless, rigid Stannis was another entirely. But she could bear it… if only until the child was growing safely within her and her hold on the court was once more unshakable.

Her pride recoiled, but her ambition pressed forward.

Let them both think she was softening. Let them believe she was harmless.

She would give them smiles and silences.

And when the moment was right, she would remind them what a lioness truly was.

But… how does one get close to a man like Stannis Baratheon?

She forced herself to think methodically. What does he like?

Not music. Not wine. Not women, certainly not in the way Robert did. Stannis seemed allergic to pleasure, like he considered it a betrayal of duty. He liked order. He liked justice… his own narrow, suffocating brand of it. He liked rules, and he liked seeing them followed.

Cersei exhaled sharply and reached for her temples. Her headache, already blooming, pulsed with new fury. It was like trying to seduce a statue.

The very idea was exhausting.

She had intended it all as a game. Something to amuse herself with. A leash thrown idly toward a wolf, just to watch him flinch. But now it was no longer just amusement… it was necessity. He could not be allowed to marry. Not yet. Not while she was still waiting, still planning, still barren.

So she had to act. Charm him, perhaps. Manipulate. Pretend to share his values. Pretend to respect him.

The thought made her sick.

Her temples throbbed in rhythm with her rising frustration. The very act of trying to understand what might tempt Stannis Baratheon made her feel like she was degrading herself.

Stannis Baratheon. Cold. Rigid. Utterly humorless. What softness could there be in a man carved from stone?

Yet somewhere, as the wine dulled the edges of her revulsion and sharpened her fantasies, her thoughts drifted—unwillingly, traitorously—into imagining what a man like him would be like in private. Methodical, perhaps. Controlled. Brutally focused. She thought of those hard, stern eyes turned not in judgment, but in want.

Her stomach twisted.

She clenched her fists.

I am a lioness, she reminded herself. I do not need affection. I need power.

And yet, no matter how tightly she closed her eyes, her mind dragged her back to Jaime… his smile, his touch, the unspoken certainty that she was his and he was hers. With him, there was no calculation, no revulsion. Only home.

What she was considering now wasn’t love. It wasn’t lust. It was a strategy carved from desperation.

And it left her feeling utterly, completely alone.

The flickering candle threw long shadows on the stone walls, and in those wavering shapes, she saw the truth she had been resisting.

Robert was slipping from her fingers. Or perhaps he had never been hers at all: just a crown on a brow that tilted wherever the wine or women pulled it. One day he wanted heirs. The next, he wanted war. The day after, he would declare some other girl “the prettiest in the Seven Kingdoms” while Cersei smiled through gritted teeth.

No. She could not anchor herself to him.

She needed someone stable. Predictable. Controllable.

I will never love him, she thought. But I will use him. I must.

Because Robert would burn the realm for sport. And Jaime, gods bless his golden heart, would burn it for her.

But Stannis? Stannis would try to save it.

And Cersei Lannister would be standing at his side, smiling like a queen only to watch him fall when his usefulness ended.

She would hold the knife that ends him.

Chapter Text

The day passed beneath a painted sky of clear gold, as if the gods themselves were watchingand Cersei Lannister made sure they would see only what she wished.

She rose early, despite the ache behind her eyes from too little sleep and too much wine, and dressed again in the colors of House Baratheon. Her attendants fluttered nervously around her as she instructed them to braid her hair simply, to avoid rouge, and to bring her the modest pearl circlet. “The one the smallfolk trust,” she had said, with a serene smile.

She spent an hour in the sept, her hands folded, her lashes lowered, lips moving in silent prayer beneath the gaze of the Crone and the Mother. She knew how to hold still. She knew how to look devout.

The nobles whispered admiration. The servants gossiped about her humility.

And Cersei listened to every word.

She walked the gardens, visited the nursery to smile at noble children, and attended a short audience with the Lord Treasurer, pretending to care about grain prices in the Riverlands.

But beneath it all, she was watching. Calculating.

She slipped from the solar before supper, her steps soft as breath, and took a quieter route through the Red Keep… one that passed, quite innocently, near the old servants’ tunnels. Varys was fond of appearing where he was least expected, and she was hoping today would be one of those days.

She needed him. Or rather, she needed what he heard.

She wanted to know what little scheme her husband had hinted at. The “better candidate” Robert had teased her with still echoed in her mind like the ring of steel on stone. Better than a Frey girl? That wasn’t hard. But what if she was noble, young, and tied to a powerful house? What if she pleased Robert?

And worse… what if she pleased Stannis?

She would not allow it. Not now. Not before she could stop it.

If she could keep Stannis unmarried a little longer, she would find a way to press herself between him and whatever path Robert laid before him. She would delay. Distract. Disarm.

And perhaps… persuade.

But Varys did not appear. The halls were too quiet. That alone unsettled her.

By the time she returned to her chambers, the sunlight was gone from the sky, and her ladies were lighting candles.

She had done everything a queen should. But it still felt like she had not done enough.

Night had fallen by the time Jaime came to her chambers.

He entered without knocking and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. The light from the hearth caught the gold in his hair and the wariness in his eyes.

“You were praying today,” he said, with the faintest curve of a smirk. “Did the gods finally hear something worth answering?”

Cersei looked up slowly. Her expression was unreadable, her hands folded in her lap like a woman carved from ivory.

“I’m doing what I must,” she replied. “For us.”

Jaime stepped closer.

“I have to be careful.” She stood, closing the distance between them, her voice lowering into something intimate. “Jaime… I want a child. Ours. But we must be careful. Robert is watching.”

“Even now?”

“Yes, even now,” she said sharply, then softened. “He’s drunk half the time and blind the other half. But not all of the time.”

Jaime watched her, his mouth tight. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sister.”

“I always have,” she leaned in, brushing her lips near his.“So we’ll be careful. As we always have. But I want our child.”

Their kiss was slow, quiet, and heavy with everything they couldn’t say aloud. When she pulled away, Cersei’s eyes were already calculating.

“If we ever want to have a child and keep it… truly keep it, without whispers or fear… then I need more than a crown. I need control. And that starts with Stannis.”

She looked at Jaime, calm and certain. “I’ll give him the smile of a sister. The care of a queen. And the leash of a lioness.”

“You speak of Stannis too often,” Jaime said, his voice low and edged with something darker than jest. “Smile at him. Flatter him. Tame him like a dog on a leash… One might think you were starting to enjoy it.”

Cersei turned her head slowly, brows lifting with cool amusement. “Are you jealous of Stannis Baratheon, dear brother?”

Jaime didn’t answer, but the flicker in his eyes betrayed him.

Cersei stepped closer, brushing her fingers along the edge of his armor as if soothing a restless hound. “He’s a stone, Jaime. Cold, dull, and blind to beauty. I could wrap myself in silks and pour wine down his throat and he’d still call it duty.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

Jaime’s voice dropped, bitter. “You’re using your charm like a blade. And I know how easily you cut.”

Cersei smiled, slow and dangerous. “Then trust that I know where to aim it.”

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his ear. “Do you really think there is a man in this castle I would rather have in my bed? In my blood? In my son’s eyes?”

That silenced him. For now.

Cersei’s hand moved to his cheek, her voice softening just enough to pass for tenderness. “I need you to be calm, Jaime. This is just a role I play, a mask I wear. But when the child is ours… when he has your face… there won’t be a mask thick enough to hide it. Let me do this. For us.”

Jaime exhaled, slow and uneven. The lines in his face smoothed, but his eyes didn’t lose their edge.

Still, he said nothing more as she drew him into a final kiss.

As he left her chambers, Cersei stood for a long while in silence, staring into the embers of the fire.

Jaime was hers. Her golden knight, her mirror, her only weakness. And she would keep him close, like a blade hidden in silk.

But in the end, this war was hers to fight.

Alone.

She sat still for a long while in the silence of her chambers, the fire burned low, casting long shadows across the floor like reaching hands. Cersei stared into the dark and thought of her mother’s face, imagined again the dream she feared. The one where Tyrion was cradled close and she was left alone, unseen, unloved.

Her jaw clenched.

No. Not again.

With sudden resolve, she rose from her chair. She didn’t call for a maid. She didn’t light a lantern. She simply took her cloak and stepped into the corridor, golden hair unbound around her shoulders like a shroud of light in the gloom.

Outside her door, Ser Boros Blount was asleep.

He slumped awkwardly on his stool, head against the stone wall, his hand limp around the hilt of his sword. His snoring was soft and pitiful.

Boros Blount was no knight of legend. His swordplay was clumsy, his manners coarse, and his wit slow as a summer’s day in King’s Landing. To most, he was little more than a dullard, a man better suited to carrying torches than holding a blade. Yet Cersei knew better.

He was hers.

In a court where smiles masked daggers and loyalty shifted like the tides, Boros stood firm… a blunt and loyal shield at her side.

…Loyal though he was, she would not suffer foolishness forever. A queen must temper patience with purpose, and Boros knew well enough that her favor was a gift, not a right.

Cersei stood over him for a beat, her expression unreadable. Then she extended one slippered foot and nudged his leg with deliberate force.

He jolted upright, nearly dropping his sword. “Y-Your Grace—!”

“Sleeping at your post?” she asked softly, voice as sweet as it was terrifying. “Shall I tell Lord Commander Selmy?”

Boros’s face went pale beneath the torchlight. “N-no, Your Grace, I—I wasn’t—”

Cersei silenced him with a wave of her hand.

“I’m going to walk in the gardens,” she said coolly. “You will accompany me. I find myself in need of… protection.”

His mouth worked silently for a moment before he gave a quick, panicked bow. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She said nothing more, simply turned and began walking down the corridor, her bare feet soundless on the stones. Boros scrambled after her, his armor clanking noisily with every step.

She didn’t look back at him.

It had been her dream for as long as she could remember… crown, splendor, courtiers, power. But in her dream, it had been Rhaegar beside her, not Robert. She was meant to be the golden queen beside the dragon prince, not the drunken, grumbling bear she had wed.

She remembered the day her father told her Rhaegar would marry Elia of Dorne.

It had felt like a slap across the face.

And then her aunt’s quiet dismissal: “Don’t cry. Not every prince is meant for us.”

But she was meant for him. She was more beautiful than Elia, stronger, purer. She had Lannister blood and Tywin’s will. She had been made for a crown.

Instead, she was given Robert who didn’t want her, didn’t love her, and who whispered Lyanna’s name even in sleep.

Cersei stopped beneath an arching tree, gazing up into the black sky. For a moment, she felt ten again. A girl, not a queen. A girl who dreamed of love and fire.

Instead, she was queen of filth and wine.

And now she had to fight not to lose everything… her child, her station, her grip on Stannis, on the king, on her very life.

Her fingers curled into fists.

Tywin hadn’t raised her to be weak. He raised her like an heir.

And…

There is no one like me.

The thought came, clear and clean, cutting through the night’s silence like a blade. She was not merely a queen. She was the realm’s center, the true sun around which all these lesser stars spun. The men who held crowns did so by birth or by battle, but she… she moved pieces. She saw patterns. She shaped destinies.

Robert was a brute. Jaime was beautiful, but too easily ruled by his heart. Tyrion was clever, but small in every way that mattered. Tywin had molded her, yes, but she had outgrown even him. She had ambition where others had appetites. She had vision where others had instinct. And while they fought for thrones and titles, she fought for power.

Not the vulgar kind… the shouted commands, the drawn swords. No. Real power was subtler. It was the tilt of a head, a well-placed whisper, a moment of weakness seen and remembered. It was knowing where to strike long before your enemy knew there was a war.

She was more than a queen.

I was born to rule, she told herself. Not to sit beside a king, but to surpass him. To survive him. To outlive them all.

And yet, even surrounded by courtiers and knights, lords and flatterers, she felt it… that hollow, echoing space no praise could fill. The legacy of being Tywin’s only daughter: taught to be better, to be stronger, to rise above love and weakness… only to be locked in a golden cage, gowned and crowned, but never truly free.

They want me docile. Soft. Controlled. But I am fire wrapped in silk.

It was why she could not sleep. Why wine could not silence her thoughts. Why she paced the keep like a lioness behind bars, waiting, waiting.

The realm thought her proud. Vain.

Let them.

They would never understand the weight of being born great and knowing it, knowing it deeply, completely, in a world that preferred small, obedient women.

I will not be small. I will not be obedient. I will not be forgotten.

She turned a corner beneath a flowering arch, the night air damp on her skin… and stopped.

Stannis Baratheon was walking slowly along the path ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his boots making the faintest scrape against the gravel. His head was slightly bowed, his face drawn and pale in the moonlight. He hadn’t seen her yet.

For a moment, Cersei simply stared, heart thudding in her chest. Not out of fear, but something far stranger. She hadn’t expected to see him here, not like this, not alone.

She stepped forward lightly, letting her voice carry through the quiet.

“Couldn’t sleep either, Lord Stannis?”

He turned, startled but trying not to show it. His eyes, sharp as ever, landed on her face with suspicion. “No, Your Grace,” he said stiffly. “I could not.”

She moved closer, hands folded, her posture graceful and almost demure. “Nor could I,” she murmured.

He said nothing for a moment, as if unsure whether to stay or take his leave. Finally, he looked away, toward the shadowed hedges. “The walls close in at night,” he muttered. “Even here.”

Cersei let out a low, almost breathless laugh. “I know the feeling.”

She could not tell him the truth… that she had wandered out to escape the thought of her mother’s cold arms around Tyrion in a dream, that wine no longer dulled the ache of memory. So instead, she offered a version of it, trimmed and noble.

“I’ve been dreaming of my mother lately,” she said, quiet and calculated. “Strange, isn’t it? It’s been years, and yet…” Her voice drifted.

Something shifted in Stannis’s eyes. Subtle, but unmistakable. He didn’t speak right away, but when he did, it was softer than she expected.

“I dream of mine, too,” he said. “Not often. But when I do, it’s always the same… her brushing the hair from my face, just once. I was very small.”

Cersei blinked. For a heartbeat, she forgot to breathe.

So that was it. A weakness. Not honor, not pride, not duty. No, this was something deeper. A pressure point buried under all that rigid armor.

In that moment, Stannis Baratheon looked his age. Not the soldier carved from stone, but a son still missing a mother’s hand.

She stepped closer, her voice soft with feigned gentleness. “What was she like, your mother?”

Stannis hesitated. His jaw clenched as if the question were a trap, and for a moment, Cersei thought he might walk away. But he didn’t.

“She was quiet,” he said finally. “Gentle, I think. Not like my father. I remember… her hands. They were always warm.”

Cersei tilted her head, studying him. That flicker of humanity in his tone… it was real. Uncomfortable, vulnerable, but real.

Then he looked at her, and the moment shifted. “And yours?” he asked, his voice steady now, as though he needed to return the question out of principle. “What was Lady Joanna like?”

Cersei opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first.

Not because she didn’t know what to say but because no one had ever asked her that. Not truly. Not with interest.

Not with kindness.

“She was…” Her voice faltered. “She was beautiful. Composed. I thought she could silence a room just by walking into it.”

She swallowed hard. “My father respected her. That alone says everything, doesn’t it?”

Stannis gave a single, slow nod.

Cersei looked away, blinking faster than she wanted to. Her voice grew sharper, as if to push back the swell of emotion rising uninvited in her chest.

“She died giving birth to Tyrion,” she added, the words flat and cold. “I suppose that tells you what sort of luck we Lannisters have with mothers.”

A silence settled between them again. Heavy. Personal.

But in Cersei’s mind, her thoughts raced… beneath the grief, beneath the shared memory of absent mothers, there was something far more urgent.

He let me in.

Even for a moment, even for a breath… Stannis had lowered his guard. And that meant something.

It meant everything.

She turned to him with a softened smile. “It’s late. Perhaps we might walk back together, my lord?”

Stannis hesitated but nodded once.

As they walked side by side through the moonlit garden, Cersei said nothing more. But inside, her mind was burning.

He let me in.

The thought repeated like a prayer. Or a victory cry.

He had spoken to her about his mother. Had looked at her not with suspicion or disdain, but with something close to familiarity. She had touched something in him. She had seen it. Felt it shift.

It was, she realized with a quiet thrill, the first time she had seen him as human.

And all it took was me.

She didn’t need to glance at him to know he walked stiffly at her side, probably already regretting the softness he’d allowed himself. That only delighted her further. He might wear his duty like a second skin, but she was learning to slip through the seams.

And she had done it alone. No one else had managed it! It had taken her, Cersei of House Lannister, to find the hole in his armor.

Her power. Her wit. Her beauty. Her will.

The euphoria roared in her blood, but her face remained unchanged: placid, noble, queenly. The night air stirred her golden hair, and she let it, like a crown shifting slightly in the breeze.

Stannis said nothing more, and that was fine. Let him stew in silence, let him reconsider his words. The moment had already happened. The crack had already formed.

She had entered his world, and he would never be able to close that door again.

When they reached the edge of the Holdfast, Cersei paused delicately and inclined her head. “Good night, my lord,” she said with warmth that could almost be mistaken for sincerity.

He gave a curt nod and walked away without a word.

As his figure vanished into the darkness, Cersei turned back toward her chambers, her lips curling in the faintest of smiles.

You poor, proud fool.

Chapter Text

The days that followed were awash in golden light, or so it seemed to Cersei. Her steps were lighter, her gaze sharper, her smile more dangerous. Stannis had not only spoken with her but had allowed her inside his carefully guarded fortress of silence. And that, to her, was no small thing.

She felt like a conqueror returned from war, laurels fresh upon her brow, banners raised in her honor. Where others saw a sullen young lord too grim for courtly dance, she had seen the cracks beneath the stone and driven her words into them like a dagger. He had looked at her with something more than disdain. He had listened.

He needed her… though he didn’t yet know it.

Cersei was radiant in her private victory. Jaime noticed the shift in her, tried to tease the cause from her in whispers and soft touches, but she only laughed. Even Robert, drunk and red-faced, remarked on her “better mood,” which only added to her private sense of glory.

In truth, she had barely slept. Her mind burned too brightly with the image of Stannis: tight-jawed and unmoored, his mask slipping in the moonlight. The memory gave her a strange thrill. Not desire. Power.

And Cersei Lannister had always loved the taste of power more than wine, more than gold, more than anything.

But no sun ever rose without shadow.

The moment came during a late morning meal, when the king, already two cups into his wine, had summoned half the court to lounge and drink with him in the garden. The air was thick with honeyed fruits and the laughter of drunkards. Cersei sat like a queen sculpted from ivory, basking in the warmth of her own triumph, a soft glow behind her eyes that had nothing to do with sunlight.

At her side lounged a knight whose name she could not recall. He was one of Robert’s wine-soaked companions, a younger son of some stormland house, more eager for her gaze than for battle or duty.

She offered the occasional nod, a languid smile, the faintest murmur of amusement when his tone shifted as if he’d told a joke. Men like him never noticed when a woman wasn’t listening, not when her eyes lingered just so on their lips, not when she tilted her head and played at interest.

“…and they say the old knight never got the smell of pig off his boots,” the man was saying with a chuckle. “Anyway, you’d know better than I, Your Grace… your house hosted the man once, didn’t it?”

She nodded faintly, eyes on the rim of her cup.

“Still,” he went on, emboldened by her silence, “I imagine it will be good to see your kin again. The gold lion and the clever one… word is your lord father and your brother the Imp are both riding for King’s Landing.”

Cersei blinked.

The words dropped like stones into still water. Her wine no longer tasted sweet. The sun no longer felt warm.

The mention of her father was a weight upon her shoulders. The mention of Tyrion was acid down her spine.

She turned to look at the knight, sharply now, though her smile did not waver. “What did you say?”

The knight seemed pleased to have earned her full attention. “Lord Tywin, Your Grace. And your brother Tyrion. They’re should be in the city within days.”

A pulse throbbed at the base of her throat. She took another slow sip of wine to hide the tension in her jaw. The fool was still talking, still smiling.

She didn’t hear a word of it.

Her father was coming.

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West. Her lord father. Her gaoler, her judge, her shadow. And worse… Tyrion. The grotesque little wretch who had stolen her mother’s breath and her brother’s loyalty. Both of them, riding toward the capital like a hammer and its pestilence.

Cersei felt the walls of the garden shrink around her, the air grow thin and hot.

No, no, no…

The space between King’s Landing and Casterly Rock had always been a sanctuary. A blessed distance. Her father’s cold disdain could not reach her here, nor his endless scrutiny, his measuring glances. And Tyrion… she had almost managed to forget the sound of his mocking voice, the smirk that never left his stunted face.

Why now?!

She had Robert to manage, Stannis to ensnare, and Jaime to protect. The court was hers and it had taken endless effort to shape it so. And now her father would come, and with him his orders, his judgment, and the scent of every failure she had ever tried to bury.

She drained her cup in one swallow, the wine burning down her throat like scorn.

He’ll want to know everything. He’ll pull strings I’ve already woven tight. He’ll see what I’ve done, what I’m doing… he’ll ruin it.

Cersei stood, too quickly. The world tilted, then steadied.

“I must return to the keep,” she said to no one in particular, not sparing the knight a glance.

Her shoes hissed over the stone as she walked, fast and silent, the hem of her gown trailing behind her like smoke. She would need a stronger wine. She would need silence to think.

Why now? Why would he come now?

Her father never traveled lightly, never moved without reason. If he was riding to King’s Landing, it meant something. It meant interference. Tyrion never came unless summoned or dragged. Was it Robert who had sent for them? Or worse… had Tywin caught wind of something?

Does he know?

Has he heard whispers of Jaime? Of Stannis? Of… me?

Cersei’s breath was short. Her pulse pounded like hooves on stone. She turned a corner too quickly, nearly colliding with a figure cloaked in dusk-colored silk.

“Your Grace,” said a voice as smooth as satin and twice as false. “What a delightful surprise.”

Varys.

He stood with his usual eerie poise, hands folded over his plump belly, bald head gleaming in the torchlight. His perfume was thick and cloying: lilac and spiced orange, as though to distract from the rotting scent of secrets. His face was a mask of bland civility, lips pursed in faint amusement, eyes never quite empty, never quite full.

Cersei halted, fighting the urge to recoil. The Spider always appeared where he wasn’t wanted… or needed most.

“Do you slither through every corridor in this keep, Lord Varys?” she said sharply.

“Only the ones that whisper,” he replied, bowing. “And today they all seem to be chattering at once.”

She narrowed her eyes. “About what?”

“Oh, the usual. Pageboys spilling wine, a certain knight caught kissing a septa… but chiefly, the expected arrivals.” He tilted his head, watching her too closely. “It seems half the realm is riding to King’s Landing. Nobles and flatterers and old allies.”

“My father and my brother among them.”

“Yes,” Varys said softly. “Lord Tywin is bringing two hundred men. He rides at the head himself, and the Imp not far behind. What joy for the capital.”

There was a flicker of something behind his smile. Knowing. Measuring.

Cersei forced her lips to curve. “Indeed,” she said coldly, “what joy.”

But her mind was screaming.

Varys watched her too closely, his painted eyes blinking with lazy grace, but the false softness in his voice never wavered.

“Oh, but fear not, Your Grace,” he cooed, as if sensing the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers had curled unconsciously at her side. “This sudden influx of nobility is no herald of war or judgment. Merely celebration. The king’s nameday approaches, after all, and what better cause for merriment than the anniversary of His Grace’s glorious birth?”

Cersei did not breathe for a moment.

Then, slowly, she allowed her muscles to soften, just enough. Her lips twitched into a faint smile, almost grateful.

“Of course,” she said, voice velvet over glass. “How could I forget?”

Robert’s nameday. It made sense. Lavish feasts, tournaments, the loud boasts of men with wine-slick beards. It was exactly the kind of chaos her father could mask himself within. A show of force under a veil of festivity.

Still, the unease coiled in her belly like a serpent, sluggish but not gone.

She tilted her head, golden hair catching the torchlight like a crown. “Then I suppose I should prepare a proper welcome.”

“Undoubtedly,” Varys said with his usual half-bow. “Though I dare say they will be more than pleased merely to lay eyes upon their radiant queen.”

Just as she began to turn away, robes whispering against stone, Varys’ voice followed her like the scrape of silk across skin.

“Oh… and one more thing, Your Grace.”

Cersei paused mid-step, spine stiffening.

“Yes?” Her tone was light, but sharp enough to draw blood.

“The king,” Varys said, folding his hands like a pious septon, “intends to make a most exciting announcement at the feast.”

She turned to face him fully, eyes narrowing. “What sort of announcement?”

A beat passed. Varys tilted his head, birdlike, all moon-pale skin and powder-dusted cheeks. “Why… the unveiling of Lord Stannis’s intended, of course. His Grace has been quite taken with the match. He says it will be… unifying.”

The word hit her like a slap.

Cersei’s lips parted, then closed again. “Who is she?” she demanded, dropping all pretense. “Tell me, Varys.”

But the spider merely smiled with that maddening softness that passed for courtesy in him. “Ah, but where would the drama be in that, Your Grace? I would not dare spoil the king’s surprise.”

Her fingernails bit into her palms. “You know.”

Varys gave a little sigh, folding his hands inside voluminous lavender sleeves. “It is not my place to say. Only this: the match will rattle cups from Starfall to the Dreadfort.”

Before she could snap again, he bowed with exaggerated grace.

“I leave you to your thoughts, sweet queen.”

And with a turn of his slippers, he glided away down the corridor like a specter, leaving the faint scent of perfume and secrets in his wake.

Cersei stood alone, heart hammering against her ribs, fury and dread rising in equal measure.

Everything was unraveling.

Her steps echoed down the corridor like accusations. Stone walls closed in, as if the Red Keep itself meant to crush her.

Father is coming. Tyrion too. And now this. Some bride. Some plan. Some clever little trap Robert thinks will bind Stannis.

Her hands trembled, hidden in the folds of her sleeves.

She had spent weeks building something delicate and precise… a web of smiles, silences, and glances, drawing Stannis closer, loosening the tight cords of his rigid spine. And now, with one careless gesture, Robert would tear it all apart. He didn’t even understand what he was ruining. He never did.

And Tywin! She could already feel the weight of his gaze pressing on her like a sword laid flat against her throat. He would want to inspect everything: her words, her posture, the bend of her courtiers’ spines. And worst of all, he would judge her. Again.

He’s coming to pull the strings himself. To remind me who commands the lion’s roar.

Cersei stopped beneath a torch and leaned against the wall, heart thudding. Her breath came sharp. Her thoughts raced and collided. He doesn’t trust me. He never has. And now he’ll see Jaime… gods, if he suspects…

A cold sweat prickled the back of her neck.

It was supposed to be her court. Her rule. Even if Robert sat the throne like a drunken sow in a crown. King’s Landing had been her stage, her garden. But now—

They’re coming to take it from me.

She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached.

No. They won’t. I won’t allow it.

But even as she thought it, the shadows seemed deeper, the stones harder, the corridors longer.

And somewhere at the end of it all, there would be a feast. A day of smiles and banners and false laughter and Robert, beaming like a fool, dragging some perfect little girl forward to take Stannis by the hand.

Cersei’s fingers curled.

A union that will shake Westeros, Varys had said.

And she was not part of it.

She had endured Robert’s stinking breath, his bellowing rages, his fat fingers pawing at her as if she were some tavern girl. She had smiled through dinners, feasts, wars, and worse. She had kept the peace when fools would have torn it apart. She had guided Jaime, soothed him, shaped him. She had even played her little game with Stannis — Stannis! — and won.

And now they thought to shake her with news of her father’s arrival? Of Tyrion? Of some girl plucked from obscurity to wed her brother-in-law?

Fools.

She pressed a hand against her breastbone, as if steadying her heart but it beat steady and strong. She would bend this court to her will. She would wrap Stannis in her silks, poison her father with pleasantries, and remind Robert that without her, he was nothing but a drunken butcher with a crown.

Let them come.

I am the Queen.

Chapter Text

A girl. A bride. A match to shake Westeros.

The words rang through her skull like a curse.

Cersei Lannister had spent her life mastering the rules of court and power and now the board was shifting beneath her feet, pieces moved by unseen hands. Her father was riding to King’s Landing to remind her who held the reins, Tyrion was likely grinning at the thought of it, and Robert… Robert had outmaneuvered her, for once. That stung worst of all.

She needed to know who the girl was. She needed to know now.

But Varys had slithered off like a shadow, and Robert would not tell her anything. That left one man.

Jon Arryn.

Just thinking the name made her lips curl.

A hollow, parchment-dry man, more corpse than lord. If anyone knows who the girl is, it’s him.

The idea of lowering herself enough to speak with Arryn turned her stomach. He smelled of ink and sour maester’s draughts. He should have died years ago but like so many brittle things in this world, he endured far past his time.

Still… Cersei knew when to sheath her claws. A queen must know when to play the fox.

I will smile for him. I will flatter him. And I will bleed from him what I need.

Her reflection in the tall looking glass met her gaze… golden, beautiful, radiant with fury. Let the world conspire. Let the old men whisper in corners. She was still Cersei of House Lannister. She would not be cast aside. Not by a eunuch, not by a drunkard, and certainly not by a doddering lord who should have been dead and buried.

She could summon him. Send a page, demand his presence, wait on ceremony. But ceremony was for women with time to waste.

No. I will go to him. Let him see that I am not afraid to knock on his door when the game turns. Let him wonder what I know and what I might do.

If he was surprised to find her at his threshold, all the better. Surprise was a weapon, too.

She rang the bell for her handmaid.

“My cloak,” she said, voice smooth as oil. “And send for no one else. I shall take only Ser Boros.”

The walk to the Tower of the Hand was not long, yet it felt as if each step dragged the weight of her dread behind it.

The Red Keep, usually so familiar, seemed different this day. Sunlight filtered through high windows, but even that light felt cold against her skin. Her silk slippers whispered over stone as Ser Boros lumbered behind her like a faithful dog.

Who is she?

She had dismissed so many names with a smirk these past weeks, laughing to herself as Robert huffed and raged and Stannis sat in silent, stiff-lipped discomfort. Cersei had thought herself clever, untouchable.

It was a game. A way to show them they were all hers to move, to toy with. Not a real match. Not a threat.

But now…

If he means to present her before the court, before me… then she is no minor lady. This is someone important. And I do not know who she is.

That ignorance was a blade to the gut.

The Tower of the Hand rose like a silent sentinel before her, its grey stones weathered but unbending much like the man who ruled within it. She hated this place, hated the smell of parchment and quiet judgment that clung to its walls. Jon Arryn had always looked at her as if she were a troublesome puzzle he had no time to solve.

Well, let him look now.

She climbed the stairs with purpose, jaw clenched, green eyes bright with fire. Boros moved to announce her, but she lifted a hand to stop him.

“No. I’ll find him myself.”

Two Gold Cloaks flanked the doorway at the base, but neither dared question her presence. One simply opened the door, bowing low as she swept past them, her cloak whispering like leaves behind her.

The halls within smelled of dust and ink, and the air was cooler here, touched faintly by the scent of parchment and old stone. A plump maid with downcast eyes nearly dropped her basket at the sight of the queen.

“Where is he?” Cersei asked without pausing.

“M–My lady?” the girl stammered, backing into the wall like a mouse.

“Lord Jon. The Hand of the King. I trust you know who that is.”

The girl nodded frantically. “He—he’s not in, Your Grace. He rode out at dawn. To the Street of Flour, I think, or perhaps the sept… he didn’t say.”

Of course he hadn’t.

Cersei halted in the main corridor, the light from a nearby window painting her golden hair in streaks of fire. Her lips were tight. Her hands, clasped before her, were anything but still.

So the old corpse scurries before I can catch him.

She considered waiting. But the very thought felt like surrender.

No. Let him return to find that the queen had sought him, and that he had not been present. Let it trouble him.

And then—

“My queen?”

Cersei turned sharply.

Lysa Arryn stood in the doorway, fingers twisting the lace trim of her sleeves. Her red hair was pinned too tightly, her cheeks flushed with something between surprise and terror. Cersei could see her throat working as she swallowed, eyes darting past the queen as if seeking someone to shield her.

Still, Lysa smiled. Trembling, hopeful, pathetic.

“Did you… come to see me?” she asked, voice light, uncertain, as if even she didn’t believe it.

Cersei’s first instinct was to scoff, to turn on her heel and leave the woman in awkward silence. But her father was days away, Robert was unpredictable, and Jon Arryn held secrets she could not afford to ignore. One misstep could cost her everything.

So she smiled instead.

“I did,” she lied smoothly. “I thought a visit long overdue.”

Lysa’s hands flew to her chest in girlish delight. “Oh… Your Grace, that’s… truly kind. No one ever comes to speak with me… not unless they want something from Jon.”

Because you’re a fish in a house of lions, Cersei thought, but she said nothing.

“Shall I have tea brought?” Lysa asked, stepping aside. “Or wine? I—I have a new blend from the Arbor—”

“Wine will do,” Cersei said, gliding into the room as if it belonged to her.

Her smile remained, warm and queenly. But beneath it, her thoughts were already elsewhere, grinding and shifting like blades in the dark.

If I can’t find the falcon, perhaps I can make the mouse squeak.

What followed, however, went far beyond what was initially intended to be brief.

One polite lie, a few forced smiles, and a cup of wine… now turned into three. Lysa Arryn, with her trembling eagerness and desperate hunger for approval, would not let her go.

Hours slipped by beneath embroidered cushions and prattling talk so dull Cersei thought her mind might simply unspool from her skull and float away. Lysa spoke of dreams and lace she once glimpsed in Gulltown. Of servants. Of loneliness. Of how much it meant that the queen herself had come to visit.

Cersei sat among the babble like a lioness muzzled in silk, silently counting the minutes, searching for any pretext to leave. Each attempt to end the conversation was met with another simpering question, another wet-eyed memory. Once, Lysa even touched her hand, as though the grace of Cersei’s fingers might heal her like the hand of a maiden saint.

And that’s when Cersei understood.

Lysa liked her. Genuinely. With the simpering, gullible fondness of women who had never grasped that the throne was no place for friendship.

Seven save me, Cersei thought, setting aside her cup and forcing yet another smile. One more hour and she’ll start calling me sister.

Sister.

The name came to her unbidden, like a whisper from a long-buried dream.

Melara.

For a heartbeat, the drone of Lysa’s voice faded, drowned beneath the sound of memory: laughter echoing in stone halls, the scent of myrrh and milkwater, hands clasped in childish secrecy beneath golden sheets. Melara Hetherspoon, her shadow in girlhood, her audience, her mirror.

She wanted to be me, Cersei thought, eyes fixed blankly on Lysa’s soft mouth, still babbling about Dornish peaches. They all do.

Melara had adored her. Melara had listened to her every word as if they were gospel. And then… then Melara had asked for what wasn’t hers.

Cersei’s lips curled ever so slightly.

She thought she could touch the sun and not burn.

Melara was a warning from the gods or perhaps a gift. A lesson Cersei had learned early: affection was a blade in sheep’s cloth. No one could truly love a lioness without fearing her teeth.

She blinked slowly, returning to the present. Lysa was watching her now, wide-eyed, hopeful, as if expecting some confidante’s response, some flicker of shared womanhood.

Cersei gave her neither.

She only smiled, the same way she used to smile at Melara before she pushed her too close to the well.

And though each passing hour with Lysa was like poison served in silver, she could not deny one thing: the woman might know something. Or at least whisper the shape of a secret.

So she stayed. And listened. And endured.

For the throne. For the heir. For herself.

“I always find it soothing to talk with another lady of the court,” Cersei said at last, soft as silk. “Men never understand how many burdens we bear alone.”

Lysa’s mouth fell open, astonished by the attention. She nodded too quickly. “Yes, yes—exactly! Sometimes I think no one notices how difficult it is, to… to balance everything.”

Cersei gave her a smile full of manufactured warmth. Inside, her thoughts churned.

You will give me what I need, Lysa. You’ll smile and spill whatever Jon Arryn lets slip by candlelight. And you’ll think I’m your friend. Just like Melara did, before the end.

She reached out and touched Lysa’s hand gently.
“I’m so glad we had this time together.”

Lysa blushed, pleased.

Ah, yes. Perhaps the lioness need not bare her fangs… only purr sweetly while the duller creatures come willingly to her paws. Even the weakest fish, desperate for warmth, will mistake the stillness of the water for safety.

Cersei leaned forward ever so slightly. “Has Jon spoken of Stannis? Of his intended match, perhaps?”

That earned only a confused blink. “Oh, that? No. I find such things dreadfully dull. All those names and banners and politics…” She made a face. “It’s not for me.”

Disappointment curdled in Cersei’s throat, but she kept her smile in place.

Lysa brightened suddenly. “But I remember Robert was here just a few days ago! He and Jon were closeted in the solar for hours. Robert was so… animated. I haven’t seen him like that in moons.”

Cersei’s spine straightened imperceptibly.

“Animated?”

Lysa nodded, giggling. “Like a boy with a secret. He was sober too. Laughing. They were planning something, I think. Something important.”

The words landed like stones.

Sober. Laughing. Plotting.

For one treacherous instant, Cersei forgot herself and gripped the arm of her chair too tightly. A sober Robert meant a thinking Robert. A dangerous Robert.

Cersei rose with a silken rustle, her hand brushing the folds of her gown into place. “It’s grown late,” she said smoothly. “I ought to return before the king begins to wonder where I’ve flown.”

She took a step toward the door.

But Lysa caught her wrist.

“Please… don’t go,” she said, and her voice cracked on the last word. Her eyes were wide and glistening, her lips trembling. “You’re the only one who… who speaks to me like I matter.”

Cersei froze.

Lysa clung to her now with both hands, her breath coming in hitching sobs. “They all look at me like I’m a ghost. Even Jon. Especially Jon. But you—you came. You stayed. You listened.”

“I—of course,” Cersei said tightly, glancing at the door, measuring the distance. Her tone remained placid, but inside she was recoiling. Gods, she’s pathetic.

Then Lysa’s voice dropped, thick with tears. “He was supposed to come for me,” she murmured. “He said he would. He promised. Petyr…”

Cersei blinked. “Petyr?”

Lysa didn’t respond, only buried her face against Cersei’s shoulder, shoulders heaving with quiet sobs. Her grip was surprisingly strong, desperate, almost childlike.

Cersei stood stiff as a statue, arms limp at her sides. She longed to shove the woman away, to call her guards and be done with this madness but she held still, jaw clenched. You are the queen, she told herself. You can endure worse than the weeping of a lonely Arryn.

Still, it took all her will not to rip herself free.

Suddenly, the door opened without warning.

Cersei turned, and in stepped Jon Arryn, tall and grave in a pale blue cloak that did little to soften the lines etched deep into his face. Behind him stood Lord Stannis, a darker shadow entirely, brow furrowed, jaw tight, his eyes scanning the room with cool suspicion.

Both men halted at the sight before them.

Lysa was still clutching Cersei’s arm, her cheeks wet with tears, her face pressed close in a posture far too intimate for the Queen and far too raw for the scene. For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

It was Lysa who broke the silence, her voice high and bright with false cheer. “Jon! My lord husband—look who came to see me. The queen has been so kind. I’ve been… I’ve just been missing Riverrun terribly, and Her Grace was thoughtful enough to stay and lift my spirits.”

She dabbed hastily at her cheeks with one sleeve, straightening like a girl caught misbehaving.

Cersei’s smile was slow, practiced. Inside, her thoughts curled like smoke. A better liar than I gave her credit for, she mused, tilting her head. Perhaps there’s something in that Tully blood after all.

Stannis looked from Lysa to Cersei, then to his brother’s hand, still faintly clenched. His eyes narrowed.

Jon Arryn only gave a slight nod, his mouth tight with polite confusion. “Your Grace,” he said at last. “This is… unexpected.”

“Your lady wife and I were speaking of home,” Cersei said sweetly, folding her hands before her. “It seems the Vale is not so different from the Rock, after all.”

Jon Arryn’s stern features softened, just a little. He stepped toward his wife and placed a hand on her shoulder, gentle as falling snow. “It gladdens me to see you smiling again, Lysa,” he said. “You’ve been… pale, of late.”

Lysa gave a fluttering laugh, her hand tightening on Cersei’s wrist as if to hold the moment still. “Her Grace has been a balm,” she said with wet eyes. “She understands things no one else here does.”

Too much praise and I’ll start to gag, Cersei thought, but she allowed herself a warm smile, perfectly measured. “We women must look after one another. Especially in a city like this.”

Jon nodded solemnly, as if that were some profound truth. “Indeed. Your Grace’s kindness does us honor.”

From the corner, Stannis let out a sound that might have been a scoff.

Cersei ignored him.

She gently freed her wrist from Lysa’s grasp and smoothed the front of her gown. “I should take my leave. Duties await.” Then, with calculated sweetness: “But I’ll return soon, Lady Arryn. You must show me the tapestries you mentioned.”

Lysa’s face lit like a child promised sweets. “Truly? Oh, yes—yes, of course! I’ll have them brought out. Perhaps we could take tea in the solar next time.”

“I would like that,” Cersei said, though the thought of enduring another hour of Lysa’s simpering made her teeth ache. Still, a Tully with a lonely heart and a need for validation might prove… useful. If the Lady of the Eyrie sees me as her friend, the Lord of the Eyrie will never see me coming.

She turned to leave, every movement regal, every fold of silk calculated to remind them who she was.

But then she felt it… heat, not from the hearth, but from the weight of a gaze.

Stannis.

He stood beside Jon Arryn, still in his travel cloak, shoulders square with that soldier’s stiffness he never shed. His face bore its usual grim resolve—tight lips, furrowed brow—but his eyes were fixed on her.

Not cold, not scornful… no, not this time.

For a breath, just one, something broke. His stare faltered, softened. There was a flicker—so quick she might have doubted it if she hadn’t felt it in her bones—a crack in the iron mask. Not quite yearning, not quite sorrow, but something human. Something almost gentle.

And gods, how it thrilled her.

Cersei met his eyes and held them, emerald flame to shadowed steel. Slowly, purposefully, she tilted her head and let a small smile bloom… cool and knowing, the smile of a lioness indulging a wolf.

The softness vanished. Like a door slammed shut.

Stannis’s jaw clenched. He looked away sharply, speaking a word to Jon without turning back.

But the damage was done.

He felt something, she thought. He tried to hide it, but I saw it. He’s not as made of stone as he’d have the world believe.

She lingered half a heartbeat longer, then turned at last and swept from the room.

She didn’t need to see his face again. It was already etched in her mind.

Good.

If Robert had secrets, then so must she. And before he could reveal this girl to Stannis, Cersei must reveal herself anew. Not as Robert’s queen. Not as Tywin’s daughter. But as his match.

She could not make him laugh, but she could make him listen. If she spoke in the right tone, chose the right griefs, wore the right wounds. Stannis did not trust easily… which meant that once gained, that trust would be ironclad. And it would be hers.

She remembered the night in the garden, the way his voice had softened speaking of his mother. That odd, unguarded look in his eyes when she had mentioned her own. It had lasted no longer than a breath, a twitch of memory across his face. But it had been real.

And now… He was moved.

Not by Lysa, surely… simpering, weak, pathetic Lysa. No, it was her, Cersei, who had held the sobbing woman and suffered it with regal composure.
He saw me bear it, and he felt something.

It wasn’t pity. Stannis did not waste emotion on the pathetic. What he’d seen was her strength… her patience beneath indignity, her grace beneath insult. And perhaps, in his rigid, narrow mind, that was something like virtue.

She smiled, slow and sharp.

Even Stannis has a heart, though he would flay it from his chest before admitting so. If I made it beat once, I can make it beat again.

She would not weep, not truly. But if tears would serve her, she would wear them like a gown. If gentleness would open the door to his trust, she would let the realm believe her gentle.

Let him be the one who lowers the drawbridge. Let him step closer, thinking it his own doing.

And when the time came, he would find her waiting.

Let her father play his long games. Let Jon Arryn whisper plans behind oak doors. Let Robert throw his whores and banners about like coins from a drunkard’s purse.

For Stannis Baratheon, she would become something she had never needed to be: vulnerable.

But only in the way a dagger hides in the folds of silk.

Chapter Text

The sun had crept higher by the hour, but it brought no warmth to her mood. Cersei sat half-reclined among cushions in the queen’s solar, draped in ivory silk. The chamber fluttered with the laughter and idle chatter of her ladies.

The silk cushions, the golden mirrors, the scent of summerwine… none of it could quiet her mind. The question of her still hung above her like a sword suspended by a spider’s thread.

Who is she?

Who is she?

Who is she?!

Cersei could see her in her mind a dozen ways: a beauty from the Vale with a pure face and a warm heart; a rich daughter from Oldtown with septas and sapphires; a Northern wolf to sow chaos in the court. All of them threats. All of them unbearable.

And the worst part: she had no name. No face to despise. Only shadows.

She clenched her goblet hard enough that her knuckles paled. Ignorance is for fools, not queens.

It wasn’t just the girl that gnawed at her. Her father was coming. Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, would be at the gates of King’s Landing by sunset. With him, as ever, came Tyrion. Her mistake of a brother, trailing behind like a bitter little shadow in his fine doublets and sharper tongue.

She hated them both, though for different reasons.
Her father, for the leash he had never truly unclasped from her neck. Tyrion, for being… everything that he was. And now they would be here, in her city, breathing her air, watching her with those Lannister eyes.

There was too much happening at once. Too many pieces she didn’t place on the board.

She closed her eyes and tried to breathe, slowly, deeply, as the septas used to teach her when she was a girl.

Think of Jaime, she told herself. Think of golden things.

For a moment, the storm in her mind stilled. Jaime, her mirror, her shadow, her beginning and end. No one knew her like he did. No one ever would. With him, there were no masks to wear, no lies to craft. Just the warmth of his touch, the way his smile crooked when he teased her, the way he called her “sweet sister” even when his hands bruised her hips.

If only…

The thought took root like a thorn in silk.

If I had been born a Targaryen…

It came to her suddenly, unbidden. And once it was there, it would not leave. She would not have to hide. She would not have to lie. She could have stood beside Jaime before gods and men, draped in red and black, with dragons stitched into her silks and fire in her blood. No shame. No secrecy. No chains.

They would have called it destiny, not depravity.
Cersei clenched the edge of the chaise, her fingers whitening. The lion had roared for centuries but dragons, dragons were obeyed.

And then, as if summoned from old smoke, another face rose in her mind’s eye.

Rhaegar.

A different kind of ache unfurled in her chest. Softer. Sharper.

He had been everything Jaime was and everything he was not. A prince forged of light and shadow. A harp in hand, a sword at hip. He had looked at her once, his eyes brushing over her like a touch too soft to feel and in that instant, she had believed she was meant for him.

If things had been different, she would have been his queen. She had imagined it so many times. Her belly heavy with his child, her hand in his as he sang to her beneath the stars. No Robert. No lies. No Jaime in secret.

But Rhaegar was ash, scattered to the winds. Jaime was a ghost in her bed. And she? She was alone.

A lioness pacing in a gilded cage, dreaming of wings.
Around her, her ladies prattled on, casting glances her way like skittish does before a lioness. She had not spoken in some time, and that silence had begun to spook them. It always did.

They tried to charm her with soft voices and petty gossip.

Cersei did not care. Until Or—

“…and they say the king received a dozen letters this week,” one of them offered, too brightly. “Angry ones. Furious, even.”

Cersei’s eyes lifted. “Letters?” she asked, voice low and sharp.

“Oh yes,” said the girl. „They’re full of outrage. Complaints, threats… but the king just laughs and reads them aloud.”

“He reads them?” Cersei repeated slowly.

“Yes, at table. He finds them terribly amusing.”

Of course he does, she thought coldly. The oaf always did love making a fool of himself.

And then she thought of the girl.

The one no one would name. The one chosen for Stannis.

Had these letters begun arriving before or after Robert had agreed to the match?
Were the letters the smoke, or the fire?

The sudden scrape of her chair against the marble floor made all the ladies flinch.

Cersei did not speak at first. She only rose, slow and deliberate, the long fall of her skirts trailing behind like the tail of a lioness in motion. Her silence was enough to unnerve them, as silence from a queen often was.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, but cold. “I need air.”

She did not explain further.

The women stood at once, more reflex than obedience. “Shall we fetch the litter, Your Grace? Or—”

“I said air, not a procession,” Cersei snapped, already moving.

They trailed after her without another word, steps light and careful, like handmaidens attending a flame they feared might flare without warning.

Cersei could feel their eyes on her back. Good. Let them fear her. Let them wonder what thought had turned her blood to ice.

Because inside, her thoughts were storming, turning and gnashing like wolves in a pit.

The courtyard air did little to soothe her. A breeze stirred her hair, warm and dry, and yet the tightness in her chest remained, coiled and bitter. Each step she took rang too loud in her ears. The whispers of her ladies had faded behind her, but in her mind, the whispers multiplied.

Letters. So many letters. Laughter. Robert
laughing at them.

She ground her teeth.

Twelve had been mentioned. And if they had made him laugh, they could not have been from her father.
Could they?

A sick heat bloomed in her belly.

Tywin Lannister did not write letters for trifles. His quill was a sword sheathed in parchment… used only with precision, only when words could do what gold and steel could not. He would not waste ink on pleasantries, nor feed Robert’s belly-laughs with idle complaints. And yet… there had been times, rare and surgical, when her lord father had written. To kings. To enemies. To shape the board before he entered the game.

If they were his letters, they would be no laughing matter. Unless he meant them to be.

Unless they were a trap. A test. A leash already knotted.

Her heart kicked against her ribs.

Would he dare? Would he write to Robert, laugh with Robert, behind my back… about me?

And Tyrion! The Imp was clever enough to wear a jester’s bells while sliding a blade between ribs. It could be him. It felt like him. The little beast had a way with words and an endless appetite for games.

But still, it was Tywin’s looming shadow she could not shake. If her father was writing behind her back… then something had already been decided.
She lifted her chin, forcing calm into her spine. No. If Father means to act, he’ll look me in the eye when he does it. He’ll tell me precisely how I’ve failed. He won’t laugh. He’ll destroy.

No. If Robert laughs, she told herself, then it cannot be serious.

That thought was a balm she applied like salve to a wound, again and again.

He laughs at jests, at flatulence, at the deaths of men he never liked. He laughs at nothing. He is a fool, and fools do not laugh at truly dangerous things. They shout, they rage. They break.

The breeze caught her skirts. One of her ladies murmured something about her hair. Cersei barely heard her.

Let it be some septon’s nonsense. A beggar lord’s complaints. Let it be anything but what I fear.

And yet fear curled in her gut all the same. Because Robert was laughing and she was not.

She was sinking again into the abyss of her thoughts when a boy’s bright laughter rang through the garden: sharp, clear, and utterly out of place.

He was tall for his years with a mane of dark curls and a face that might have made even Septa Saranne sigh. His doublet was rich velvet, the stag stitched in bright thread at the breast. He was laughing at something one of his companions had said, but when he saw her, he stopped.

“Your Grace,” he said with a flourish of a bow, smiling as if they were already dear friends. “What fortune to find you on my very first evening in the capital.”

Cersei inclined her head slightly.

“Renly,” she said coolly. “The road must be quieter without you.”

“Quieter and duller, I would wager.” He grinned. “But I expect King’s Landing will provide livelier company.”

She gave a smile that never reached her eyes.

He has charm. That much is obvious. But charm is a mask, and boys with masks are boys who hide their true faces.

Pretty as a prince from a song, she thought. And just as false.

And yet, she could not deny the boy’s beauty. There was something magnetic in his presence, something that made lesser courtiers lean in and laugh too loudly at his jests.

Cersei let her gaze linger only a moment longer before dismissing him with a nod. “Your brother will be pleased you’ve come. You’ll find him drunk in the garden.”

Renly chuckled, then gave another bow.

Cersei stood still, her thoughts dark.

Egoist. Opportunist. The same blood as Stannis, and yet none of his iron. Just the gold. Shining on the outside… worthless underneath.

Her companions tittered behind him, eyes following the boy with barely concealed delight.

“In a few years’ time,” one of them whispered, “Renly will break half the hearts in the realm.”

The others giggled all the harder, as if the prophecy were already coming true.

“Don’t swoon all at once,” Cersei murmured, her voice smooth as silk stretched taut. She didn’t look at them. Her eyes were still on Renly.

He was turning now, as if he had felt her gaze, and their eyes met across the garden. He smiled.

Pretty boys make dangerous fools.

Cersei turned to her companions with a lazy wave of her hand. “If that one spent half as much time reading as he does preening, he might be of some use to someone.”

They tittered again, though more nervously now.

Cersei began walking, her silks whispering behind her like waves.

For a moment, she wondered… could he know something? Could Robert have written to him, spoken to him?

No. She forced the thought away like a buzzing fly. Renly is a child, she told herself. A pretty little ornament, nothing more. Robert would not burden a boy with matters of state.

She thought of Robert then, and of Stannis. One all bluster and wine-soaked charm, the other hard as iron, joyless, unyielding. And this one, the youngest, born into the shadow of both.

The Baratheons were fractured, each brother spun from the same thread and yet pulled in opposite directions. She almost pitied them.

Almost.

Her thoughts turned, as they always did, to her own blood. Jaime, golden and laughing, always hers. Tyrion, twisted and scheming. Her family, too, was splintered, but not weak. The Lannisters did not crack. They did not scatter like broken shields across a battlefield.

No. The lion devoured its own before it allowed such disgrace.

And yet, now the lioness turned on her heel, silks rustling like a hissed warning, startling the girls behind her. “Enough idling,” Cersei said sharply. “I’ve lingered in this garden long enough.”

Her companions exchanged glances, wide-eyed. It had been she who insisted on the walk mere moments ago, sweeping them along with a restless energy they could hardly refuse. Now, without warning, she was all purpose and ice, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the hedges.

“Shall we… return, Your Grace?” one of them ventured, timidly.

Cersei didn’t answer. She was already walking, fast enough to force them into an undignified scramble after her. Her mind had moved on, galloping ahead to the task she had been dreading since morning: preparations for her father’s arrival. And Tyrion’s.

It was happening. The peace she had carved out for herself with painted smiles and careful steps was about to be shattered by the iron heel of her father’s presence and by the crawling shadow that was Tyrion.

What if they knew?

No. There was nothing to know. Not unless someone had spoken. Unless someone had written. Unless Varys had whispered in her father’s ear, the way he always whispered to men in power. Unless Jaime—

No. Jaime wouldn’t.

Would he?

Her mind raced through every word they had shared over the last moons, searching for cracks in the stone, signs of betrayal she might have missed. He was hers. He had always been hers. But he was also Tywin’s son.

No one is coming to help you, whispered some old voice in her mind. Not Jaime, not our dead Mother, not even the gods.

Was there a savior left for her in this wretched court?!

Cersei barely dared to think it.

The thought was foolish, weak, dangerous. She swallowed it like poison, chasing it with pride. She would save herself, as she always had.
And then she saw him.

A figure stepping into the corridor’s far end. Stannis.
He moved with that same grim purpose, that unyielding gait as if the world itself offended him and he was determined to grind it back into order beneath his boots.

Of all people.

Of all moments.

Her breath caught, confusion flooding through her in a sudden, terrible wave. The gods had a cruel sense of humor. But still… something in her stilled.

She slowed her step, composing her features into something soft, gracious. A mask as polished as gold. Her girls, sensing her sudden stillness, hesitated.

“Wait here,” she murmured without looking at them. “I won’t be long.”

They bowed their heads and stayed behind as Cersei crossed the marble floor like a queen descending to parley.

“Lord Stannis,” she said, sweetly. “How rare to find you indoors during daylight.”

He stopped, turning toward her with that stare of his: flat, assessing, unflinching. For half a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

“You look troubled,” he said finally. Not a question. A statement, hard as stone.

Cersei’s smile tightened. “Troubled? I assure you, I’m radiant. Merely busy. Guests arriving, preparations for Robert’s name day… I imagine you’re busy as well.”

Stannis said nothing. His eyes searched hers, not rudely, but intently… like a man peeling back cloth to check for rot beneath. She hated that about him. Hated more how, in moments like this, she feared he could see too much.

“You’re trembling,” he said, quietly. “Your hands.”

Cersei stilled them at once, folding them neatly before her. “How very observant. I had not noticed.” She laughed, too lightly. “Too much to do, too little wine.”

Stannis didn’t laugh. He never did.

His gaze lingered a moment more, then dropped away. “Walk with me, if you’ve time.”

“I have all the time in the world,” she lied.

They walked for some time in near silence, their footfalls echoing faintly along the tiled corridor.

Cersei kept her posture languid, her expression composed, though her thoughts crackled behind her eyes like wildfire beneath stone.

Then, without preamble, Stannis spoke.

“Do you truly like Lysa?”

The question was so absurd, so utterly beneath the storm of her thoughts, that it took a moment to register. Cersei blinked.

Like Lysa? The girl who clung to her like a milk-sodden kitten? Who wailed about rivers and some forgotten fool named Petyr?

The lioness in her reared up, ready to bare teeth and mock him. She had a dozen biting things ready: sharp, cold, regal.

And yet… nothing came out.

Instead, she stood there, lips parted, eyes narrowing just slightly. She held his gaze and said nothing at all.

Do I like Lysa? Gods, what a question. Like was a child’s word. She didn’t like people. She assessed them, used them, removed them. The idea was laughable. And yet… was it?

She could have lied easily, said yes with the warmth of a saint, but that would only earn Stannis’s contempt. He hated lies dressed as virtue. But the truth… that she found Lysa weak, weepy, and barely tolerable was too sharp to offer plain.

So instead, she crafted something in between, with the precision of a jeweler setting poison in gold.

“She’s… pitiable,” Cersei said at last, her voice low. “But there’s honesty in her grief. At least she doesn’t pretend. I can understand that.” She gave a small shrug. “And solitude breeds strange habits. I’ve seen it often enough in court… in myself, sometimes.”

Stannis’s expression didn’t change, not quite. But the silence that followed was not cold… it was contemplative. As if her answer had scratched something just beneath his armor.

The silence stretched so long Cersei nearly broke it herself, lips parting in some cutting jest but then his voice came, flat and without music.

“Lysa is weak,” he said. “But weakness doesn’t strip a woman of the respect she’s owed. I had thought you played with her, at first. Now…” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Now I’m less certain.”

Cersei arched a golden brow, the glimmer of a smirk curling at her mouth. “Is that your way of saying you’ve begun to see virtue in me, Lord Stannis?”

His gaze cut to her, sharp as drawn steel. “No.”

The word fell between them like an executioner’s axe.

“I see a girl,” he went on coldly, “dressed as a queen, drowning in silk and power she doesn’t own. I see a daughter dancing to her father’s tune.”

He turned before she could find her breath again, leaving her.

Cersei’s blood turned to fire.

For a moment, everything stopped—her breath, her thoughts, the world itself. Only his words remained, burning in the air between them like a brand seared into flesh.

Her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached. Her hands spasmed into fists at her sides, nails digging until they pierced skin. She wanted to scream. To slap him. To tear the smug cold from his face and grind it beneath her heel.

But she stood still. Silent. Frozen in place not from fear, but from fury too vast to release.

Stannis’s footsteps rang sharp in the corridor—one, two, three—and then… silence.

Cersei froze, fury still burning in her chest like a lit brazier. She hadn’t expected him to turn back.

But he did.

Slowly, deliberately, he pivoted on his heel, and the torchlight caught his face in half-shadow. That same grim mouth, that same cold stare… but there was something else now. Something she couldn’t name.

Their eyes locked.

“I thought you were all vanity and venom,” he said, voice like iron dragged across stone. “Perhaps you are. But you’re also far more interesting than I ever imagined.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Cersei’s breath left her in a quiet gasp. For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t blink.

Her heart was pounding.

It should have pleased her. It did, in a way.

But still… the words echoed, uninvited.

Far more interesting than I ever imagined.

No. She would not think about that.

He is nothing. And I—

I am a lion.