#CERSEI 「study」 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 4 months ago

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What Was Promised (2/2)

- Summary: From her childhood, Cersei has been told how she would one day stand next to the dragon as his queen. And she will. Just not in the way she dreamed of.

- Pairing: (targ)male!reader/Cersei Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (adult content, blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: 1/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @literaturedog @idenyimimdenial

The torches lining the corridors of the Red Keep flickered as a warm evening breeze drifted through the open archways, carrying with it the distant echoes of music and laughter from the great hall. The wedding feast continued in full splendor, but you had long since removed yourself from the revelry, slipping past the crowd with the ease of someone who did not wish to be found. The air outside was cooler, touched with the salt of Blackwater Bay, the night sky above the city dark and endless, save for the dim glow of scattered lanterns below.

You had always preferred solitude over the noise of court, and tonight was no different. The games played within the walls of the great hall were of little interest to you—hollow displays of feigned loyalty, careful smiles masking hidden ambitions. You had known the outcome of this day long before the first vows were spoken. Rhaegar was wed, the match sealed, the ties between Targaryen and Martell forged in ceremony. And yet, you had seen it in your father’s eyes during the feast, the way he had watched Rhaegar with something akin to contempt, the way his fingers had clenched against the armrest of his chair whenever Dorne was mentioned.

Aerys was slipping. The cracks in his mind were beginning to show, and the court whispered of it more freely now, no longer only in hushed corners but behind veiled hands at feasts and in council chambers.

You had just stepped into the open courtyard, inhaling the cool night air, when you heard the measured footfalls behind you.

You did not turn immediately.

Instead, you let the silence stretch, waiting, listening. The steps were deliberate, steady—not the hurried movement of a squire or the cautious gait of a servant. No, this was a man who knew he had a right to be here, who had no need to rush, no need to announce himself.

When you finally turned, you were unsurprised to find Lord Tywin Lannister standing there.

The lion of Casterly Rock regarded you with his piercing gaze, his expression as unreadable as ever. His golden cloak barely shifted in the breeze, his posture rigid, composed. He did not bow, nor did he feign pleasantries. Tywin Lannister did not waste words on things he deemed unnecessary.

“Leaving the festivities so soon, my prince?” he asked at last, his voice smooth, deliberate.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “I find them tedious.”

Tywin gave a small nod, as if he had expected that answer. He stepped closer, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “I had hoped to speak with you,” he said. “In private.”

You leaned back against one of the stone pillars, arms folding across your chest. “Then speak.”

For a moment, he only studied you, his green eyes measuring, weighing. Tywin Lannister did not enter a negotiation without first assessing his opponent. And though he was a man who commanded respect, a man who had shaped the realm through his rule as Hand, you knew well enough that he did not see you as his equal. Not yet.

“There is much uncertainty in the realm,” he began. “Much change. The King’s mind… wavers.” He did not say the word madness, but it hung unspoken between you.

You said nothing, waiting.

Tywin’s gaze did not waver. “Dorne is a weak alliance.”

That caught your interest. Your lips curled slightly. “My brother seems to disagree.”

“Your brother is not the King,” Tywin countered, his voice edged with finality. “And he may never be.”

You let that settle between you, watching the way his eyes flickered, the careful way in which he chose his words.

You had known this conversation would come eventually. Tywin Lannister had spent years molding himself as the true power behind the throne, his command as Hand unchallenged for over a decade. He had built the might of House Lannister not through blind loyalty, but through strategy, through precision, through patience.

And now, as Aerys slipped further into paranoia, as his trust in his former Hand crumbled, Tywin was looking elsewhere.

“You speak as if you are ready to break from the King,” you said evenly.

Tywin’s face remained impassive. “I speak of alliances, my prince.”

A small breath of amusement escaped you. “And how, Lord Lannister, do you propose we form such an alliance?”

The words lingered in the night air.

Tywin’s silence was his answer.

Your smirk deepened. “You offer me your daughter.”

Still, Tywin did not blink.

“It would be a strong match,” he said simply. “Your father has already made his disdain for Dorne clear, even as he binds our future to them. House Lannister is a stronger ally, with resources unmatched by any in Westeros.”

You watched him carefully, noting the steel in his tone, the unwavering certainty. Tywin Lannister did not beg, nor did he request. He offered, knowing full well that what he brought to the table was of worth.

But he was not a man without pride.

And there was one flaw in his plan.

“Tell me, Lord Lannister,” you said, voice light, yet cutting, “do you truly believe my father would allow such a match?” You tilted your head slightly. “Would he not laugh in your face again?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, though his expression did not shift. “Your father is not the man he once was.”

“No,” you agreed. “He is not.”

You let the silence stretch again, considering. Tywin was not wrong—Dorne was a fragile ally at best, their fealty given only as long as it suited them. Aerys had made his choice, binding Rhaegar to Elia, but Aerys himself was no longer seen as a stable ruler.

And you?

You had always known your place in the shadows of your brother’s legacy, in the court that adored him, in the eyes of a father who only saw one true heir. But things were shifting. Rhaegar had secured his future. Perhaps it was time you secured yours.

Cersei.

Your mind drifted back to the dance, to the way she had met your gaze, unflinching, taunting. The way she had pressed you, provoked you. She did not cower. She did not shy away from the fire.

No, she burned just as fiercely.

You inhaled slowly, turning your attention back to Tywin. “I will consider your offer.”

Tywin Lannister gave a small nod, as if that was all he had expected. “That is all I ask.”

He did not bow as he turned to leave, his golden cloak sweeping behind him.

You watched him go, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

The lion had made his move.

Now, it was time to decide your own.

The tourney at Harrenhal was the grandest spectacle the realm had seen in decades, a gathering of lords and knights, of banners unfurled and sworn swords eager to prove themselves in the lists. The crumbling walls of the cursed castle loomed over the vast expanse of the field, its shadow stretching long across the gathering of nobility seated beneath richly adorned pavilions. The banners of every great house in Westeros fluttered in the early spring breeze, a riot of colors against the dull grey of Harrenhal’s ancient stones.

Cersei sat in a place of honor now, her seat among the royal family, though she was not yet their own. Not officially. But the whispers had long since spread, and the colors she wore today left no doubt.

Gone was the crimson and gold of House Lannister alone. In its place, she wore a gown of deep black, embroidered with dragons of gold and red—the colors of her betrothed. The weight of the silk clung to her as she sat beside her father, the great Lord Tywin Lannister, who had never looked more pleased, nor more controlled in his satisfaction.

She did not sit with Queen Rhaella or with Rhaegar’s Dornish wife, though Elia Martell was not far, her dark eyes keenly watching the jousts, her delicate hands clasped over the swell of her belly. Cersei knew the Martell princess found no joy in these games of blood and sport, but she played the role expected of her. Just as Cersei did.

Except today, there was something different.

Cersei’s gaze remained fixed on the field, watching as the next round of jousts commenced. The crowd was alive with anticipation, the rumbling excitement growing as knights rode forth, their lances gleaming in the afternoon light. The banners of House Baratheon, House Tyrell, House Tully, and a dozen others stood proud along the edges of the lists.

But none commanded attention quite like the black dragon.

He sat atop his destrier, the warhorse a beast of night-dark muscle, its breath misting in the cool air as it pawed at the earth. He wore no elaborate flourishes upon his armor, no unnecessary embellishments of pageantry this time. His armor was blackened steel, the filigree of golden dragons glinting faintly along the pauldrons and gauntlets, the sigil of his house emblazoned upon his breastplate. His helm, adorned with nothing but the sharp ridges of Valyrian steel, concealed his expression, but Cersei did not need to see his face to know the weight of his gaze.

He had always been like this. Unyielding. Relentless. More dragon than courtier, a man who commanded without words, without poetry or song. Where Rhaegar had always been the prince of dreams, this one had been forged in fire and steel.

The crowd hushed as the joust began.

His opponent was formidable—Ser Jonothor Darry, a sworn knight of the Kingsguard, a man known for his prowess in the lists. But skill meant nothing when faced with sheer, unrelenting force.

The moment the signal was given, the two knights charged.

Their lances struck true, but where Ser Jonothor’s shattered harmlessly upon the black dragon’s breastplate, the younger prince’s struck with the precision of a predator. The impact was brutal, sending the Kingsguard knight crashing to the ground in an explosion of dust and splintered wood.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Cersei did not stand, did not clap. She only watched, her breath held in anticipation of what she knew was coming next.

He did not linger at the far end of the lists.

Instead, he turned his horse sharply, guiding the great beast along the edge of the stands, his movements controlled, deliberate. The other knights had played their part well today, accepting their victories with bows and flourishes, basking in the admiration of ladies eager to toss them favors.

But he did not stop for them.

He rode past the fluttering hands of noble daughters, past the bright smiles of eager young maidens hoping to catch his eye. Past the noblewomen who whispered his name behind their fans, their gazes lingering on the untamed silver of his hair, the unshakable confidence in his stride.

And then, he came to a stop.

Before her.

The hush that fell over the crowd was almost tangible, a collective breath held as the black dragon lifted his lance, tilting it toward Cersei in an unmistakable request.

A request for her favor.

She had waited years for this.

The moment she had been denied at the tourney so long ago, when he had walked past the ladies of the court without so much as a glance. The moment she had burned in silence as he had shown no interest, no desire to play the game that others so eagerly indulged in.

And now, here he was. A man, no longer a boy, standing before the court—before her—and making it known.

Cersei did not hesitate.

She rose from her seat, the black and gold of her gown pooling around her as she stepped forward. Her hands were steady as she unpinned the silken ribbon from her sleeve, the colors matching his own, a deliberate declaration that she was his and he was hers.

The crowd watched, murmuring, as she leaned down, tying the ribbon to the shaft of his lance with slow, deliberate movements. The cool steel beneath her fingers felt warm, thrumming with something unspoken, something electric.

When she finished, she met his gaze, her green eyes locking with his through the narrow slit of his helm.

She did not smile.

She did not need to.

The message was clear.

And then, without a word, he turned his horse and rode away, the black and gold trailing behind him like a banner of conquest.

Cersei sat back down, her heart pounding beneath her ribs, her fingers still tingling from where they had brushed against his.

This was no song of courtly love.

No empty gesture meant for admiration.

No, this was a claim.

And Cersei Lannister had never wanted anything more.

The chaos of the tourney had settled into an uneasy hum by the time you strode through the halls of Harrenhal, your blood still burning with the fury of what had just transpired. The air inside the great castle was thick with smoke and murmured voices, the remnants of feasting and celebration still clinging to the walls. But all of it felt like a distant haze compared to the storm raging inside you.

You had left the lists. You had withdrawn from the tourney just before facing Barristan Selmy, a match that had been anticipated by lords and knights alike. And in your absence, Rhaegar had taken your place.

And he had won.

That, in itself, did not matter. He was your brother, and if anyone was to best Barristan Selmy, it was him. But it was what came after that had sent the court into uproar, that had left the lords whispering and the ladies gasping.

Rhaegar, in all his silvered grace, had ridden past his own wife. Past Elia Martell, who had watched with her dark eyes brimming with quiet resignation. Past the woman he had sworn himself to in the sight of gods and men.

And he had crowned Lyanna Stark instead.

The blue roses had looked almost like an omen in his hands, their color rich and vibrant against the pale skin of the northern girl who stood frozen in the stands. The moment the wreath had touched her lap, the world had cracked apart.

A prince did not forsake his wife in such a way. A Targaryen did not snub Dorne. A husband did not humiliate his bride before the entire realm.

But Rhaegar had.

Because of some dream. Because of something he had seen in the flames or the stars or whatever foolish thing he had let consume his mind.

And now, you were going to make him face it.

The door to his chamber swung open with force as you stepped inside, the wood slamming against the stone wall. Rhaegar was standing by the hearth, his silver hair catching in the dim light, his hands braced against the mantel as if the weight of what he had done had only just begun to settle upon him. He did not turn immediately, as though he had been expecting you, as though he had known this confrontation was inevitable.

"You sentimental fool," you spat, your voice edged with barely restrained fury. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

Rhaegar exhaled, slow and measured, before finally facing you. His indigo eyes were calm, but there was something else beneath them—something distant, something unshakable.

"I did what I had to," he said simply.

You laughed, the sound bitter. "Had to? Had to?" You took a step closer, your boots heavy against the stone floor. "You crowned a Stark bitch as your Queen of Love and Beauty. You humiliated your wife, insulted Dorne, and made an enemy of the North in the span of a single moment." Your voice dropped, sharp and cutting. "For what? A dream?"

Rhaegar's jaw tightened. "It is more than that."

"You think the gods whispered to you?" You sneered, your patience unraveling. "You think some prophecy—some foolish, half-formed vision—is worth tearing the realm apart?"

Rhaegar’s gaze did not waver. "She is important."

"She is a girl," you snapped. "A girl with a wolf’s blood in her veins and a house that will burn the world to see her returned to them."

"She is more than that," he insisted, his voice firm, unwavering.

Your breath came harshly as you stared at him, your older brother, the golden son, the one everyone adored, the one who had been meant to lead. But looking at him now, all you saw was a man lost in his own delusions, a man who had damned them all for a whisper in the dark.

"Do you think Aerys will forgive this?" you demanded. "Do you think our father will let this pass? Or do you think he will see treason in your actions and burn every Stark in the process?" You stepped closer, your voice a growl. "You have destroyed us. You have destroyed her."

That struck something in him. A flicker of pain. Of doubt. But it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"I know what I am doing," Rhaegar said, but there was a crack in his voice, a hint of hesitation.

"No," you said, your voice low, dangerous. "You don’t."

And then, you moved.

Rhaegar barely had time to react before your fist struck his jaw, the force sending him stumbling back against the table. He caught himself, his eyes wide with shock, but you did not stop.

You lunged, grabbing the front of his tunic, shoving him back with enough force that the wooden chair beside him toppled over. He struggled, but you were stronger, your grip unrelenting as you slammed him against the stone wall, your forearm pressing against his throat.

"Do you think love will save you, brother?" you hissed. "Do you think the North will sing your praises for this?" You leaned in closer, your breath hot against his skin. "They will kill you. They will kill all of us."

Rhaegar struggled against your grip, his hands bracing against your arms, but you did not relent. You could feel the way his breath came faster, the way his pulse quickened beneath your hand.

"You would strike me?" he rasped, his voice strained.

"I would kill you if it meant saving our house," you snarled.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled behind you, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Your breathing was harsh, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears.

Then, with a sharp exhale, you shoved him away, releasing him with enough force that he staggered forward, coughing as he caught his breath.

"You are my brother," you said, your voice calmer now, but no less lethal. "But if you do not stop this madness, if you do not think before you act again, I will not be so merciful next time."

Rhaegar straightened, his hand rubbing his throat, but he said nothing.

You turned, striding toward the door. But before you left, you cast one final glance over your shoulder.

"Whatever it is you think you saw," you said, your voice quiet but firm, "forget it. Before it consumes you."

Then you were gone, leaving Rhaegar standing alone in the flickering firelight, his hand still pressed against his throat.

The waters of the Trident ran red with the blood of men. The clang of steel and the screams of the dying echoed over the riverbanks, drowning in the roar of war. The banners of Targaryen and Baratheon clashed in the wind, torn by the fury of battle, their colors sullied by the mud and gore that painted the ground beneath them. The air was thick with the scent of death—iron and sweat, flesh burned from the torches that had set the fields ablaze.

You had seen war before, but never like this. Never had you seen the river choke on the bodies of the slain, never had you watched knights drown beneath the weight of their own armor as they clawed at the surface, only to be pulled under by unseen hands. Never had you seen the dream of your house shatter like this.

And all for what?

For a woman. For a prophecy. For a foolish love that had turned a kingdom to ruin.

Rhaegar had always believed in destiny. He had believed in the songs, in the visions, in the whispers of things unseen. And now, here he was, fighting in the waters of the Trident, his silvered armor glinting with each desperate strike of his sword, his breath coming ragged, his strength waning.

And then, Robert Baratheon’s warhammer struck.

You saw it before you could stop it, before you could move, before you could call out. The heavy iron weapon swung through the air with terrifying force, smashing into Rhaegar’s chest with a sickening crunch. The dragon’s armor, the rubies embedded in the plate, shattered on impact, scattering like drops of blood across the river.

Rhaegar reeled back, his body crumbling into the shallows, the water around him churning red. His sword slipped from his fingers, sinking beneath the current as he struggled to breathe.

The world slowed.

Robert turned, lifting his hammer once more, his body heaving from exertion, his face twisted in victory. He did not see you coming.

You moved like the shadow of death itself.

Your sword was in your hand before thought could form, the weight of it an extension of your will. You had been trained for this since the moment you could walk, forged not in prophecy but in war, not in dreams but in blood. You were not the prince who sang songs. You were not the prince who spoke of destiny.

You were the prince who killed.

Your blade found Robert’s flesh before he could react, slipping between the plates of his armor, piercing through his ribs. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening, a guttural sound escaping his lips as he staggered. You twisted the blade, feeling the warmth of his lifeblood spill over your hands as you wrenched it free.

Robert Baratheon, the would-be usurper, the man who had sworn to take the Iron Throne, collapsed at your feet, his warhammer falling from his grasp, sinking into the bloodied waters of the Trident.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Silence fell, but only for a moment.

The battle still raged around you, but you did not hear it. Did not see it. Your world had narrowed, had funneled into a single moment, into the broken body of your brother lying in the shallows, his chest rising and falling in shallow, struggling gasps.

You dropped your sword.

The water sloshed around your knees as you stepped toward him, the sounds of war fading into a dull roar. His hands trembled as they pressed against his ruined chestplate, as if he could hold himself together, as if he could stop what was coming.

You knelt beside him, your hands steady as you pulled the helm from his head. Silver hair, damp with sweat and blood, clung to his forehead, his indigo eyes unfocused as he looked up at you.

You had never seen him like this.

Rhaegar, the golden son, the dragon who had been promised, lay broken before you. The prince of prophecy, the man who had abandoned reason for fate, was dying in the waters of a river that had swallowed the dreams of so many before him.

You swallowed, your throat tightening as you reached for him. He flinched, just barely, his body trembling beneath your hands.

“I told you,” you murmured, your voice quieter than it had ever been, “this would consume you.”

His lips parted, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He was trying to speak, but the words would not come. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, his body shuddering beneath the weight of his wounds.

You gripped his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I am sorry, brother,” you said, your voice steady.

And then, you took your dagger and drove it into his heart.

He gasped, his body jerking beneath you, his fingers twitching before going still. His indigo eyes, softer then yours, stared up at the sky, unseeing.

The river carried the rubies from his breastplate downstream, scattering them like drops of blood upon the current.

You exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of what you had done settle deep into your bones.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the prince of prophecy, was dead.

And you had kept your promise.

The Red Keep had never felt so suffocating. The great hall, with its towering pillars and high vaulted ceiling, had always been a place of power, a chamber where kings commanded and courtiers whispered. But today, there was a weight in the air, thick and stifling, pressing down upon every soul gathered within its walls. The torches burned low, the flickering flames illuminating the wary faces of those who stood in silence, waiting.

Cersei stood among them, adorned in the black and gold of her betrothed, her gown draped in rich silks, the embroidery of dragons curled along the sleeves, a symbol of the union that had been promised. She had been here before, had stood in this hall countless times, had walked these corridors knowing that one day, this would all be hers. But today, for the first time, she felt something akin to unease curling beneath her skin.

The war was won. Robert Baratheon was dead. Rhaegar was dead. The rebellion had been crushed before it could consume the realm entirely. And yet, there was no celebration in the Red Keep, no triumphant feasts or songs of victory. The court lingered like a gathering of ghosts, their eyes flitting between one another, between the door and the Iron Throne, where the king—her king—sat, unseeing, unknowing, slipping further into the madness that had taken root in his mind.

Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward, his hands folded within the heavy sleeves of his robes, his expression carefully schooled, but even he could not hide the tremor in his voice. “Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing deeply, his white beard brushing against his chest, “Prince—” he hesitated, correcting himself, “—your son, and Lord Tywin Lannister, stand at the gates of the city. They come with their armies, victorious.”

A hush fell over the chamber, the words settling like a cold weight upon them all.

Cersei felt it, the pang of relief that coursed through her at the knowledge that her father was here, that he was here. She had waited for this moment, had clung to the certainty that they would return, that they would see this war ended, that they would not let the realm descend into chaos.

But the silence that followed Pycelle’s words was heavy, stretching unbearably long before Aerys finally stirred upon his throne.

The king’s fingers tapped against the armrest, slow and erratic, the nail of his smallest finger broken, dark with dried blood. His robes, once resplendent in crimson and black, hung loose around his thinning frame, his silver hair unkempt, his lips twitching as he glanced toward the gathered court, eyes darting from face to face, searching for treason in every shadow.

“And you would have me open my gates to them?” Aerys’s voice was biting, brittle, like glass that had already cracked but had yet to shatter completely.

Pycelle hesitated. “They are your loyal subjects, Your Grace. They have won your war.”

Aerys let out a short, high laugh, a sound that sent an uncomfortable shiver through the chamber. “My war?” he echoed, his voice rising. “My war?” He shifted upon the throne, his fingers curling into the carved dragon heads at its arms. “This war is far from over. The traitors still breathe. The wolves, the falcons, the dragonslayers.” His lips peeled back in something that was not quite a smile, his teeth bared like a starving dog eyeing a fresh kill. “My fire has yet to consume them all.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her hands folding at her waist to keep them from trembling.

This was not the king her father had once served. This was not the ruler of Westeros. This was a man who had been swallowed whole by his own madness, who had turned his throne into a cage from which he would never escape.

She looked to Jaime, standing rigid in his white cloak, his hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. His expression was unreadable, but she could see it in his eyes—the quiet war within him, the battle between duty and the reality of the man he had sworn to protect.

Aerys shifted again, his gaze snapping back to Pycelle. “They mean to replace me,” he whispered, though the words were spoken loudly enough for all to hear. “They mean to usurp me, just as Rhaegar—” he cut himself off, his mouth twisting as if he had bitten into something rotten. “I will not open my gates. Let them beg like the rest.”

Before Pycelle could find his voice, before anyone could speak, the great doors of the hall groaned open, the heavy iron hinges shrieking under the weight of movement.

The court turned.

And the world shifted.

The golden lion entered first.

Tywin Lannister stepped into the hall with the same measured confidence he had always carried, his cloak billowing behind him, his armor polished and gleaming, the lion of his house emblazoned upon his breastplate. The light of the torches flickered against the edges of his face, his cold green eyes scanning the chamber with the practiced ease of a man who had already decided the fate of those within it.

And beside him, walking with slow, deliberate steps, was the dragon.

He was no longer the prince who had once stood at Rhaegar’s side, no longer the shadow behind the dreamer. He was something else entirely now.

The black and gold of his armor had been darkened by war, the dragon wings carved into his pauldrons glinting like the edges of a blade. His long pale hair, damp with sweat, clung to his jawline, his face unreadable beneath the weight of the past days. He had killed Robert Baratheon. He had killed Rhaegar. He had crushed the rebellion at the Trident with his own hands.

And now, he had returned.

The hush that fell over the court was suffocating. No one spoke. No one dared move.

Aerys, for the first time in days, was silent.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat.

She had seen him fight before. Had seen him ride, had seen him command. But this… this was something new.

This was not a man returning in victory.

This was a conqueror standing before a king who no longer ruled.

And as Tywin Lannister took another step forward, as the prince followed in silent, watchful step, the entire court felt it.

The tides had turned.

And the Red Keep would never be the same again.

The silence in the great hall stretched unbearably, thick with unspoken words and the weight of what was about to come. Cersei sat rigid in her place among the courtiers, her green eyes locked upon the two figures now striding toward the throne, toward the unraveling king who perched atop it, his fingers twitching against the armrests of blackened iron.

Tywin Lannister was composed as always, his every step slow, deliberate, a lion stalking the last moments before a kill. He did not look at the assembled lords, did not acknowledge the way their gazes flickered nervously between him and the throne. He had served in this hall for years, had commanded from behind the throne, had once been the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. And now, he had returned, but not as a servant.

At his side, the younger prince walked in equal silence, though his presence was something altogether different. There was no caution in his steps, no hesitation in the way he carried himself. His violet eyes, dark and unreadable, did not waver as they settled upon the throne and the mad king who sat upon it.

Cersei’s breath was shallow, her fingers gripping the fabric of her gown beneath the table, unseen. She had spent years longing for this moment, for the war to be over, for her father’s return, for her betrothed to claim what was rightfully his. But now that it was happening, now that the moment had come, she could not shake the feeling curling in her stomach—the certainty that nothing would be the same after today.

Aerys Targaryen tilted his head slightly as Tywin and his son approached, his lips parting into something like a smile, but it was wrong—stretched too thin, twitching at the corners. His nails drummed erratically against the throne, the jagged edges of his seat pressing into his thin frame. He had wasted away in these last moons.

Tywin stopped before the dais, but it was the younger prince who spoke first.

“The war is over,” his voice cut through the chamber like a blade, smooth but firm, unyielding. “You have won, Father. Step down. Rest.”

Aerys blinked.

And then, he laughed.

The sound was shrill, fractured, peeling into the air like the screech of metal against metal. It rang through the chamber, bouncing off the walls, sending a ripple of unease through the assembled lords and courtiers.

“Step down?” Aerys cackled, shaking his head violently. “Step down?” His eyes darted between them, lingering on his son, his expression twisting. “You sound just like Tywin. Is that what this is? Has he turned you against me? Has he promised you something grand? Has he filled your head with ambition?”

Cersei saw the flicker of something in her betrothed’s eyes, but he did not react, did not shift under his father’s manic scrutiny. “There is no one left to fight,” he said simply. “No one left to burn.”

Aerys stilled, his fingers curling tightly against the armrests.

“I will burn them all,” he whispered, his voice suddenly low, almost childlike. “I will burn them all before I let them take my throne. Before I let you take my throne.”

The king’s breathing was erratic, his lips twitching as his gaze darted wildly, his mind slipping further from reason. His fingers found the edge of his robes, curling into them, as if seeking comfort, as if seeking control.

The younger prince took a slow step forward.

“Then kill me.”

Aerys’s gaze snapped to his son, his body tensing.

Cersei’s breath caught in her throat.

The room went still.

The younger prince spread his arms slightly, exposing the dark armor that bore the sigil of their house, the dragon of three heads gleaming in the dim torchlight. His dark violet eyes were steady, unblinking, fixed solely upon his father.

“If you believe I mean to take your throne,” he continued, his voice calm, unwavering, “then do it. Kill me, and prove to them all that you are still king.”

Aerys’s fingers twitched.

Cersei saw it then—the hesitation, the flicker of confusion in the king’s eyes, the way his mind scrambled to process the words, to grasp at what was real and what was not.

Aerys let out a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His gaze flickered to the guards, to the pyromancers standing near the edge of the chamber, to the ones who had whispered to him of fire and destruction, who had fed the growing madness within him.

His lips curled, baring his teeth.

He opened his mouth—

And then, steel flashed.

A gasp rippled through the chamber, a choked sound of surprise and horror as Aerys jerked forward, his body convulsing.

For a moment, he sat motionless upon the throne, his breath caught in his throat, his hands twitching.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

And behind him, standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, was Jaime Lannister.

His white cloak billowed slightly, his sword still buried in the king’s back, his expression unreadable. Blood pooled around the hilt, a crimson stain spreading against the deep red of Aerys’s robes.

The king let out a ragged breath, his body shuddering as his hands gripped the arms of the throne. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. Only the sound of a wet, choking gasp.

Jaime ripped the sword free.

Aerys pitched forward.

He tumbled from the throne, falling in a heap at the younger prince’s feet, the light in his wild eyes flickering out before his head hit the stone.

The chamber was deathly silent.

Cersei stared, her mind racing, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had imagined Aerys dead before, had dreamed of it, had longed for it in the quiet of her thoughts, but never had she imagined it would happen like this.

Never had she imagined that it would be Jaime who struck the fatal blow.

Jaime stood rigid, his Kingsguard whites now stained crimson, his breath coming harsh and uneven. His sword—his oath-sworn blade—was slick with the blood of the man he had once sworn to protect.

The silence was still deafening.

Cersei could not breathe.

The king was dead.

Her betrothed stared down at the body, his expression unreadable, his dark violet eyes cold and fathomless.

And then, he sighed.

He stepped over the corpse, past the fallen king, past the pools of blood that seeped between the cracks in the stone.

He did not look at Jaime.

He did not look at Tywin.

He only walked forward.

And with each step, Cersei knew.

The throne was his now.

And nothing—not gods, not kings, not the ashes of the war—would ever take it from him.

The Sept of Baelor had never felt so vast, nor so heavy with silence. The high, arched ceilings, adorned with delicate carvings of the Seven, loomed above, their presence eternal, unyielding. The colored light from the stained-glass windows painted the marble floors in hues of crimson and gold, deep blue and shadowed green, reflecting the gods who watched as the realm turned upon its axis.

It was quiet now, save for the soft murmurs of the septons preparing the altar, the shuffle of feet as nobles found their places among the pews. The air smelled of myrrh and melted wax, of incense curling through the air in thin, ghostly tendrils. The weight of history settled over the sacred space, for today was not just a wedding—it was the binding of a kingdom, the final stitch in the tapestry of a conquest that had begun with fire and ended with blood.

And at the altar, waiting beneath the flickering glow of a hundred candles, stood the king.

He was clad in black and gold, the armor of war now set aside for the regality of rule. His tunic, woven from the finest Valyrian silk, bore the sigil of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon emblazoned across his chest in thread of red and black. The heavy cloak that draped over his shoulders was fastened by a golden clasp in the shape of a dragon’s head, the metal gleaming in the dim light. His silver hair, untamed as ever, fell past his shoulders, unbound by the ceremonial circlet of Valyrian steel that crowned his brow.

He was a king now. Her king.

Cersei stood just beyond the great doors of the Sept, waiting as the moment stretched unbearably. The weight of her gown, a cascade of golden silk embroidered with dragons in red and black, felt heavier than it should have, the tightness of her bodice almost suffocating. The jewels at her throat gleamed, the rubies nestled within gold settings catching the light as she breathed. She was beautiful��radiant even—but there was a sharpness beneath her beauty now, something carved from the past moons, from the war, from the weight of what was about to happen.

Tywin Lannister stood beside her, his expression unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back in that controlled, measured way of his. But Cersei could feel it—the change in him, the subtle shift of his ambitions, the moment when he realized that what was unfolding before him was not the future he had originally planned.

No, this was something far more terrible. And far more perfect.

He had once envisioned his daughter as the wife of Rhaegar, the quiet queen beside the dragon prince who played his harp and dreamed of prophecies. That had been his path to power, his way to secure his dynasty. But now, she was to wed not the prince of songs, but the dragon of war.

She was not marrying a man who played at prophecy.

She was marrying the man who had killed his brother to take the throne.

"You should be proud," Tywin said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "You will be queen, as I always intended."

Cersei turned her gaze to her father, tilting her chin slightly. "You did not intend this," she said, her voice light, almost teasing, but there was an edge beneath it.

Tywin studied her, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. "No," he admitted after a pause. "Not like this."

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. "And yet, this is better, isn’t it?"

Tywin did not answer immediately, but she saw it—the way his jaw shifted slightly, the way his gaze flickered toward the doors of the Sept, toward the man who waited within.

"This is not a man who will be ruled," he said at last.

Cersei’s smile did not fade. "No," she agreed. "He will not."

Her father exhaled, a slow breath, before offering her his arm. "Come, then. It is time."

Cersei placed her hand upon his arm, her fingers resting lightly against the crimson silk of his sleeve. Together, they stepped forward, the great doors of the Sept opening before them, revealing the path to the altar, where the man who had reshaped the kingdom in fire and blood stood waiting.

She felt every pair of eyes upon her as she walked—lords and ladies, knights and septons, the great and the powerful, all witnessing the moment that would bind her fate to the most dangerous man in Westeros.

And as she stepped closer, her gaze met his.

His dark violet eyes held hers, steady, unblinking, as if he had known all along that it would come to this. As if he had always known that no matter what had been planned before, no matter the fate her father had once written for her, this had been inevitable.

She was not marrying a dreamer.

She was marrying a dragon.

And she had never wanted anything more.

The chambers given to the King and his new Queen were vast, their grandeur unmatched by any in the Red Keep. The canopy bed, carved from dark mahogany, was adorned in black and crimson, the silks smooth beneath Cersei’s fingers as she stood in the center of the chamber, feeling the weight of expectation settle upon her shoulders. The air was thick with the lingering scent of wine and candle wax, the remnants of the feast still echoing in the halls beyond, though the laughter and music had long since faded.

She barely heard it now.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but it was not from fear. No, she had never feared this. This was what she had longed for, what she had envisioned in the quiet corners of her mind, in the years she had been denied.

The doors shut behind her with a deep, resonant sound, sealing them within the chamber. She did not turn immediately, but she felt him. Felt his presence like the heat of a fire growing ever closer.

When she did turn, he was there, standing in the flickering glow of the hearth, his violet eyes dark beneath the crown he had not yet removed. The circlet of Valyrian steel rested upon his brow, but his tunic was already loosened at the collar, his hands working at the fastenings with deliberate ease.

Cersei exhaled, slowly, tilting her chin upward, her green eyes locking onto his with the same unshakable defiance she had carried through the years. She was not a timid maiden, not some meek girl to be taken gently, to be coaxed with whispers of love and careful touches. That had never been what she wanted.

She stepped toward him, the golden embroidery of her gown catching the candlelight.

"Are you going to make me wait?" she murmured, her voice smooth, edged with challenge.

A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained focused, unwavering. He said nothing, only watching her, assessing, as though weighing the hunger in her voice against his own.

Then, with a single motion, he shed the heavy cloak from his shoulders, the fabric pooling onto the floor behind him.

The space between them vanished in an instant.

His hands were upon her, not soft, not hesitant—strong fingers curling around her waist, pulling her flush against him, the heat of his body searing through the silks that still clung to her. She gasped, but it was not in protest. No, she arched into him, her fingers finding the clasps of his tunic, working them apart as his mouth found the skin of her throat, his breath hot against her pulse.

"Not gentle, are you?" she whispered against his ear, her nails scraping against his skin as she shoved the fabric from his shoulders.

His response was a low, amused growl. "Would you want me to be?"

Cersei laughed, low and breathless. "No."

She felt the shift, the way his grip tightened, the way his restraint frayed like a rope pulled too taut. He did not waste time, did not treat this like some delicate courtship. He was fire and strength, unyielding in the way he pressed her back against the edge of the bed, in the way he tore at the laces of her gown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

Her skin burned beneath his touch, every nerve alight, but she did not falter. She met him with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair, her mouth claiming his with the same demand, the same hunger that had simmered between them since the moment she had first seen him.

Their bodies collided, limbs tangled, hands bruising, lips parting only for breath, only for more.

He did not worship her like some fragile thing.

He took her.

And she let him.

The world narrowed to the heat of his body above her, to the way his fingers dug into her hips as he thrust into her, each movement forcing a gasp from her lips, each stroke deeper, rougher, claiming her in a way no man had before.

She met him with the same force, her nails scoring against his back, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer, taking all that he gave and demanding more. There was no patience, no soft murmurs of affection. Only the raw, unrelenting rhythm of their bodies, the sound of their mingled breath, the fevered gasps swallowed by the night.

It was not sweet.

It was not gentle.

It was a battle.

And neither of them surrendered.

It was only when the fire reached its peak, when the pressure built to the breaking point, that he groaned her name against her throat, his body shuddering as he spilled inside her, the last vestiges of control snapping as he buried himself deep within her.

Cersei gasped, her own release crashing over her like a wave, her back arching, her fingers curling against his skin as she trembled beneath him.

The world stilled, their breath the only sound in the chamber.

His weight pressed against her for a moment longer before he shifted, his lips brushing against her shoulder, his breath warm against her damp skin.

Then, his voice came, low, rough, edged with something unreadable.

"Is this what you wished for?"

Cersei turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze, her own breath still uneven.

She did not smile.

She did not hesitate.

"Yes," she whispered. "And more."

The great hall of the Red Keep had always been a place of power, but now, as the banners of House Targaryen draped over the towering pillars and the Iron Throne loomed above, it was something more. It was the beating heart of the realm, the seat of a dynasty reforged in war, tempered in fire and blood. The torches burned low, casting flickering shadows over the polished stone floors, their light dancing across the scaled sigil of House Targaryen carved deep into the walls.

Cersei sat upon the dais, clad in black and crimson, her golden hair bound in intricate braids that crowned her head like a queen’s diadem. She had ruled beside her husband for years now, had seen the kingdom shaped under his reign, had birthed his heirs. And now, as she watched the great doors of the hall swing open, she knew that today would be another moment upon which history would turn.

Eddard Stark stepped into the chamber, his steps slow, deliberate, the wolf of Winterfell standing tall even in the lion’s den. The banners of House Stark, grey and white, did not fly here, but he carried the weight of his house in his stance, in the quiet steel of his gaze. His wife, Catelyn, walked beside him, her expression composed but wary, and behind them followed their household—Benjen Stark, grim and watchful, and the great lords of the North who had ridden south in the name of justice.

And yet, before their eyes could settle upon the throne, before they could bow before the dragon who ruled from its seat, their gazes fell upon something else entirely.

Three children sat at their mother’s side, dressed in Targaryen black, their silver hair gleaming beneath the light of the torches.

The eldest, Aerion, no more than ten, sat with all the composure of his father, his dark violet eyes steady, his expression unreadable. He bore the strength of his lineage, the sharp lines of his father’s face already beginning to take shape. Beside him sat his sister, Rhaenys, seven, her curls cascading over her shoulders, her gaze keen and curious, though tempered with the same regal poise as her mother. And the youngest, Daemon, barely five, leaned slightly against Cersei’s arm, his small fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve, though his sharp eyes studied the Northern guests with unblinking intensity.

The sight of them was undeniable. They were dragons.

And for the briefest moment, Eddard Stark faltered.

Cersei saw it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his lips pressed into a thin line, as though he had glimpsed a future that had long been denied him.

"Lord Stark," she greeted, her voice smooth, unwavering. "Winterfell has come a long way from the North to stand in our halls."

Eddard inclined his head, slow and measured. "Your Grace." His gaze flickered briefly to her children before returning to her. "It was not a journey made lightly."

Cersei smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "Few journeys are."

A beat of silence passed, heavy with the weight of the years that had led to this moment.

"I have come to speak with the King," Eddard said finally, his voice firm, but not without caution. "To demand justice for the deaths of my father and brother, slain under the rule of Aerys Targaryen."

The hall was silent save for the distant crackle of the torches.

Cersei tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving his. "Justice?" she echoed, amusement curling at the edge of her voice. "And tell me, Lord Stark, what justice do you seek from a man who had no hand in their deaths?"

Eddard’s jaw tightened. "Aerys may be dead, but his crimes remain unpunished."

Cersei leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow upon the armrest of her chair. "The Mad King burned your father alive, yes. And his son, the one you would have raised banners for, the one you fought against us for, stood by and did nothing." She let the words sink in before she continued. "My husband did not."

Eddard’s eyes darkened. "Your husband is a Targaryen, just as Aerys was."

"And your friend, Robert Baratheon, was a traitor," Cersei countered, her voice sharpening. "Yet you followed him to war. You killed for him. You bled for him." She smiled, slow and cold. "Tell me, Lord Stark, is it justice you seek? Or is it vengeance?"

Eddard exhaled through his nose, his hand clenching at his side.

Cersei did not move, did not break his gaze, but she felt the small shift beside her, the way Aerion straightened slightly, the way Rhaenys glanced between them, already keenly aware of the weight of the conversation. Even Daemon, barely past his fifth name day, watched with quiet intensity.

Finally, after a long moment, Eddard spoke.

"There must be peace," he said. "The North will not rise against the throne, but neither will it forget what was done to us."

Cersei inhaled, then exhaled slowly.

"You stand in a hall that bears the banners of House Targaryen," she said, her voice quiet but edged with steel. "You stand before the wife of the King, before his heirs. The war is over, Lord Stark. It has been over for years. Whatever vengeance you carry in your heart, whatever ghosts still haunt you, they will not change what is."

Eddard’s gaze flickered, but he said nothing.

The great doors of the hall creaked open once more, and the presence that filled the chamber was undeniable.

The King had arrived.

The hush that fell was immediate, a ripple of bows and lowered heads as the ruler of Westeros strode toward the dais, his cloak billowing behind him, his dark violet gaze taking in the gathered lords with quiet command.

Cersei did not turn to greet him; she did not need to.

She simply smiled.

The dragon had come.

And whatever justice Eddard Stark sought, he would find only the rule of fire and blood.

...

The silence between you and Eddard Stark stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring, unspoken words simmering between you, unyielding as the cold of the North he had come from.

His eyes, grey as a winter storm, held no fear, no wavering hesitation. He had come here not as a petitioner, not as a man seeking favor, but as a son, as a brother, as the last of his house who remembered the day Aerys burned Rickard Stark alive, the day Brandon Stark strangled himself in chains, clawing for a sword that would never come.

“I ask for my father’s and brother’s remains,” Eddard said, his voice steady but edged with something deeper, something that had been buried beneath years of duty and restraint. “They were left to rot in the dungeons of this keep. I would see them returned to Winterfell, to be laid to rest beside their kin.”

The hall was silent.

Cersei sat beside you, watching with an expression as still as a painted mask, her golden hair glinting under the dim light of the torches. Your children, the future of your house, watched with quiet intensity—Aerion, regal and composed, his eyes betraying nothing, Rhaenys, sharp and curious, and Daemon, young but already understanding that power was not just in words, but in how they were spoken.

You exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the armrest of your throne before nodding. “It will be done,” you said simply. “You have my word.”

Eddard held your gaze for a moment longer, as if measuring the weight of your promise, as if still trying to reconcile the man who sat before him with the legacy of the house you bore. Then, he inclined his head, slow, deliberate. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He turned, the final act of his duty seemingly fulfilled, his cloak shifting as he moved toward the doors. The North had come for its dead, and soon it would leave, retreating back to the lands of snow and silence.

But you were not done.

“Stark.”

Your voice carried across the hall, smooth, measured, but there was something beneath it, something that made him stop in his tracks.

Slowly, Eddard turned back, his grey eyes wary.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, watching the way his shoulders stiffened ever so slightly beneath the weight of what he thought had been laid to rest.

“They were both fools,” you said, your voice quiet, but edged with something biting. “Your brother, my brother. But Lyanna… she was just as much to blame.”

The shift in him was subtle, but you saw it. The way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something behind his eyes, something long buried, long silenced.

“You know it,” you continued, watching him carefully, gauging the way his breath came just a fraction slower, as if he were bracing himself. “Perhaps you have always known it, but you could never say it. You could never let yourself believe it. Because if she was not stolen, if she was not taken… then what does that make her?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

A muscle in Eddard’s jaw twitched, but still, he did not speak.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your forearms against the arms of your throne, your gaze never leaving his. “I was there the day my brother died, Stark. I saw it. I saw the way his chest was caved in, the way the rubies from his armor scattered into the river like blood upon the water. And in his final breath, do you know what he looked for?” You tilted your head. “Not his wife. Not his children. Not his house. He looked for her.”

Eddard’s breath came slow, controlled, but you saw the tremor in his fingers, the way they curled into fists at his sides.

“They destroyed us,” you murmured, your voice lower now, the words curling through the air like embers caught in the wind. “Together. Not just Rhaegar. Not just Aerys. Lyanna, too. She was no mere girl stolen in the night, no innocent thing torn from her home. She ran with him. She chose him.” You let the words sink in, let the weight of them settle upon the man who had built his life upon the ruins they had left behind. “And for what? A prophecy neither of them understood? A love that was doomed before it even began?”

Eddard’s throat worked, his breath heavy, controlled, though his face betrayed nothing.

You leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I wonder, Lord Stark, how long you’ve known the truth,” you mused, tilting your head slightly. “Or is it that you never allowed yourself to see it?”

A long silence stretched between you, the weight of unspoken truths pressing upon the hall like the final embers of a dying fire.

Finally, Eddard inhaled, slow and steady. His face remained unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes now, something colder, something resolved.

“I came for justice,” he said at last. “Not for ghosts.”

You smiled, slow and knowing. “Then you have what you came for.”

Eddard Stark turned without another word, his cloak sweeping behind him as he strode toward the doors, the weight of the past trailing in his wake.

The doors groaned open, the cold wind of the North whispering through the hall as he disappeared into the shadows beyond.

And just like that, the last remnants of the rebellion, the last echoes of the war that had shaped the world, faded into silence.

Cersei exhaled softly beside you, her fingers brushing over the armrest of her chair, her golden hair catching in the dim light as she watched the doors close.

You did not move.

The past was gone.

And the future was yours, like it was promised.

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