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Cersei Lannister
The wheelhouse trundled along the Kingsroad, a massive wooden construction painted in deep crimson with golden lions carved into its sides - a clear statement of Lannister wealth and power. The wheels creaked against the well-worn road as six white horses pulled the ornate vehicle forward. Inside, the wheelhouse was furnished with plush velvet cushions in Lannister crimson, and delicate golden threads were woven into the fabric of the curtains that covered the windows.
The fields surrounding them were vast expanses of green, stretching as far as the eye could see when Cersei bothered to look through the curtains. Spring was in full bloom, and wildflowers dotted the landscape with splashes of yellow, purple, and white. The occasional oak tree stood alone in the fields, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun.
"Did you hear, Lady Cersei?" simpered Melara Hetherspoon, a girl of fifteen who hadn't stopped chattering since they left Casterly Rock. "They say Prince Rhaegar might sing at the feast."
Cersei's green eyes flashed with barely contained irritation. "Yes, Melara, you've mentioned it at least twenty times since this morning."
"Oh, but isn't it romantic?" sighed Jeyne Farman, another of the Western ladies. "And the prize money Lord Whent is offering! They say it's larger than any tourney prize in living memory."
"My brother Jaime will win the joust," Cersei stated flatly, her tone brooking no argument. She smoothed her crimson silk dress, adorned with subtle golden embroidery - a gown that had cost more than what most knights would make in a year.
"But surely Prince Rhaegar-" Melara began.
"My brother is the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms," Cersei cut her off sharply. The other girls fell silent, exchanging nervous glances.
Through the window, Cersei could see their escort of Lannister guards riding alongside the wheelhouse, their red cloaks billowing in the spring breeze. Their armor gleamed in the sunlight, another display of Lannister opulence. Beyond them, the countryside rolled by - verdant hills, freshly plowed fields ready for planting, and the occasional cluster of peasants who stopped their work to gawk at the passing procession.
"I heard Princess Elia won't be attending," whispered Jeyne, apparently unable to keep quiet for more than a few moments. "They say she's too weak since birthing the princess."
Cersei's lips curled into a slight smile. "How unfortunate," she said, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. The wheelhouse hit a bump in the road, causing the ladies to grab their seats for stability.
"It's true what they say about her health," added Lady Alysanne Lefford, an older girl of eighteen. "My cousin at court says she spends more time in bed than at court functions."
"A proper queen should be strong," Cersei said, her voice dripping with disdain. "The dragon kings of old didn't wed frail women who couldn't leave their chambers."
The other ladies nodded in agreement, eager to align themselves with Cersei's opinion. The wheelhouse continued its journey as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. In the distance, dark clouds were gathering, promising rain for the evening.
"We should reach Harrenhal by tomorrow afternoon," announced Lady Lefford, peering through the curtains. "Look, you can see the God's Eye lake in the distance."
Indeed, when Cersei glanced out, she could see the massive lake's surface glinting like a mirror in the distance. Somewhere beyond it lay Harrenhal, the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, though also the most cursed, if the tales were to be believed.
"They say every great lord in the realm will be there," Melara continued excitedly. "Even the Starks are coming down from the North!"
"The Northerners," Cersei scoffed. "Savages who still worship trees."
"But they say the Lord Stark's daughter is a great beauty," Jeyne ventured, then immediately regretted it when Cersei's sharp green eyes fixed on her.
"Beauty?" Cersei laughed, a sound as beautiful as it was cruel. "What would those Northerners know of beauty? They probably think their sheep are beautiful too."
The other ladies tittered nervously at her jest, but Cersei had already lost interest in the conversation. Her mind wandered to Prince Rhaegar, with his silver-gold hair and deep indigo eyes. She remembered how he had looked at her during her visit to King's Landing years ago, before that Dornish woman had stolen what was rightfully hers.
The wheelhouse rocked gently as it continued its journey, and Cersei found herself wondering what her father's true purpose was in attending this tourney. Tywin Lannister did nothing without purpose, and she knew him well enough to know there must be some greater scheme at play.
As if reading her thoughts, Melara spoke up again. "Your lord father seems in good spirits about this journey, my lady. I haven't seen him so... determined since he was Hand of the King."
Cersei shot her a warning look, and Melara quickly fell silent. Her father's resignation as Hand was not a topic to be discussed so casually, especially not by the daughter of a minor house.
Outside, the first droplets of rain began to fall, pattering against the roof of the wheelhouse. The escort called for the oiled cloths to be drawn over the baggage, and the procession continued its slow progress toward Harrenhal.
"We should change into our finest gowns when we arrive," Lady Lefford suggested, clearly trying to change the subject. "First impressions are everything at such gatherings."
"Indeed," Cersei replied, her mind already on the gowns she had brought - each one carefully chosen to display both her beauty and her house's wealth. "Though some of us needn't try so hard to make an impression."
The other ladies exchanged knowing looks but said nothing. They all knew Cersei's beauty was legendary throughout the Seven Kingdoms, rivaling even that of her mother, the late Lady Joanna.
As the rain grew heavier, the sound of it drumming against the wheelhouse roof filled the silence. Cersei found herself hoping the weather would clear by the time they reached Harrenhal. She had no intention of making her entrance in the rain like some common merchant's daughter.
The fields around them had given way to more wooded areas now, the trees casting long shadows in the fading light. Cersei could see their guards pulling their cloaks tighter against the rain, the red fabric darkening with moisture.
"We should probably stop soon," Lady Lefford observed. "It's getting dark, and these roads can be treacherous at night."
As if in response to her words, the wheelhouse began to slow, and they could hear the captain of their guard calling out orders. They would make camp for the night, and tomorrow they would arrive at Harrenhal, where Cersei would remind everyone exactly why House Lannister was the most powerful family in the Seven Kingdoms.
Cersei's thoughts drifted to her father's promise years ago, spoken in his solar at Casterly Rock. She could still remember the pride in his voice, the certainty with which he had declared her future.
"You will wed the prince, but don't tell anyone. It's our little secret."
Those words had sustained her through countless nights of dreams, imagining herself as Rhaegar's queen, wearing a crown of gold and diamonds, ruling the Seven Kingdoms at his side. But then came that terrible day - her mother's death, bringing that malformed creature into the world. The memory made her jaw clench. Not only did that creature kill her mother, but since her mother's death, her father was never the same.
'Tyrion,' she thought bitterly. 'The little monster who killed my mother.' Her fingers tightened on her dress as she imagined pushing him from the heights of Casterly Rock. 'They say dwarfs can fly. Perhaps I should help him discover his hidden talents.'
"Lady Cersei," Melara's voice cut through her dark musings, "does Ser Jaime plan to take a wife soon? Surely many ladies would be honored to wed such a gallant knight."
Cersei noticed the barely concealed hunger in Melara's eyes, mirrored in the faces of the other ladies in the wheelhouse. They all wanted her golden twin, dreaming of becoming the Lady of Casterly Rock. 'Stupid little fools,' she thought with contempt.
True, Jaime was handsome - they shared the same golden hair and emerald eyes, the same perfect features that marked them as Lannisters. But he was nothing compared to her silver prince. Where Jaime was all golden summer, Rhaegar was moonlight incarnate, with his silver-gold hair and eyes of deep indigo that seemed to hold all the sadness in the world.
A smirk played across her full lips as she thought of Jaime's true destiny. Her twin wanted to join the Kingsguard, and she had encouraged him in secret. Her father would be furious when he found out - his golden heir swearing away his claim to Casterly Rock. But Cersei saw the bigger picture. With Jaime in the Kingsguard, she would have eyes and ears in the Red Keep, someone wholly devoted to her interests.
'Poor Father,' she thought with satisfaction. 'For all your cleverness, you never saw this coming. Your precious heir will wear a white cloak instead of ruling the Rock.'
"My brother's marriage prospects are not a matter for discussion," she said coldly to Melara, watching the girl's face fall. "Though I'm sure he has more important matters on his mind than taking a wife."
Tomorrow
"Gods, this castle," Cersei muttered to herself, running her fingers over a black stone wall that still seemed to radiate the heat of dragon fire after nearly three centuries. The chamber was large - too large, really - with high vaulted ceilings that disappeared into shadows above. Even the window was unnecessarily massive, as if built for giants rather than men.
She turned her attention to the array of gowns spread across the enormous bed: cloth-of-gold, crimson silk with golden embroidery, deep green to match her eyes, and Myrish lace in ivory that cost more than a knight's ransom. Each one had been chosen with careful consideration.
The door opened without warning, and Cersei didn't need to turn to know who it was. Only Jaime would dare enter her chamber so boldly.
"Have you seen him?" she asked, still examining her gowns.
"You should have seen Ser Arthur Dayne," Jaime said excitedly. "He was practicing in the yard with Ser Barristan. The way they moved - it was like a dance. Ser Arthur asked if I wanted to-"
Cersei turned slowly, fixing her twin with an icy stare that could have frozen the God's Eye solid. Jaime's voice trailed off.
"I asked about the Prince, not your precious knights," she said coldly.
"Oh. Yes, I saw him," Jaime replied, then winced slightly.
Cersei's eyes narrowed. She knew that look - the one he'd worn since childhood when he had news he didn't want to share. "What is it?"
"The King is here."
"What?" Cersei's voice was sharp. "That's impossible. Everyone said he wouldn't leave King's Landing. They said he was too... unwell."
"Well, he's here. Arrived with twenty gold cloaks and Ser Gerold Hightower. Father doesn't know yet - he's still on the road with the main party."
A small, cruel smile played across Cersei's lips. "How unfortunate for Father. He'll be so disappointed to miss the King's arrival."
"Cersei..." Jaime started, his tone cautionary.
"Don't start," she cut him off. "You didn't see his face when the King rejected me for that Dornish woman. All those years of promises..." She turned back to her gowns. "The green silk, I think. With the golden lions at the collar."
"You're still thinking about Rhaegar?" Jaime's voice had an edge to it. "He's married."
"For now," Cersei said dismissively. "That weak wife of his isn't even here. Too fragile to travel, they say. What kind of queen can't even attend a tourney?"
"The kind that gave birth to a princess," Jaime pointed out.
"A girl," Cersei scoffed. "And they say she nearly died doing even that much. No, a prince needs a strong wife. Someone who can give him proper heirs. Someone beautiful enough to stand beside him."
"Someone like you?" Jaime's voice was bitter now.
Cersei finally turned to face him fully. Her twin was beautiful in his crimson and gold doublet, his golden hair catching the light from the window. But his face was troubled.
"Have you spoken to Father about the Kingsguard?" she asked, changing the subject.
"No," Jaime replied, running a hand through his hair. "He'll never agree to it."
"He won't have a choice once it's done," Cersei said with satisfaction. "Just make sure you're ready when the moment comes."
A knock at the door interrupted them. "Lady Cersei?" a servant's voice called. "Lord Whent is hosting a welcome feast in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Your father's party has just arrived through the main gate."
"Tell them I'll be ready shortly," Cersei called back. She turned to Jaime. "You should go. I need to change."
"Cersei..." Jaime tried one more time.
"Go," she said firmly. "And remember what we discussed about the Kingsguard. Don't let Father suspect anything."
After Jaime left, Cersei began to dress with the help of her maids. The green silk gown fit perfectly, emphasizing her slender waist and full bosom. Gold lions with tiny emerald eyes clasped at her shoulders, and her golden hair was arranged in elaborate braids that would have made even a queen envious.
As she studied her reflection in the polished bronze mirror, she allowed herself to imagine how it should have been - herself as Rhaegar's bride, not that sickly Dornishwoman. But perhaps all was not lost. After all, the dragons of old had taken multiple wives.
"My lady," one of her maids said tentatively, "they say the feast is about to begin."
Cersei admired herself one final time in the polished bronze mirror. The gown was one of the most beautiful she had, made of the finest silk from Lys in a deep emerald that matched her eyes perfectly. The bodice was fitted tightly, emphasizing her small waist and full breasts, with golden thread work creating an intricate pattern of lions and vines that caught the light with every movement. The sleeves were tight to the elbow before flowing out in dramatic drapes that nearly touched the floor, lined with cloth-of-gold that flickered like flames when she moved.
The neckline was cut daringly low - but not so low as to appear common - and was adorned with tiny emeralds and diamonds set in gold. A golden belt studded with more emeralds hugged her hips, and the skirts fell in perfectly arranged folds that whispered against the floor as she walked. Her golden hair was arranged in an intricate series of braids that crowned her head like a diadem, with a few carefully arranged curls framing her face.
"You look radiant, my lady," her maid said as she adjusted the final fold of the skirt. "Though I doubt any lady could outshine Princess Elia tonight. She looks so beautiful in her Dornish silk, and so healthy too."
Cersei's hand froze where it had been adjusting a golden lion brooch. "Princess Elia is here?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral. "I had heard she was too... not doing well after giving birth to the Princess."
"Oh no, my lady. She's quite recovered. She's in the great hall now with Prince Rhaegar. They make such a handsome couple."
A sweet smile spread across Cersei's face, though her eyes remained cold as winter. "How wonderful that the princess is feeling better," she said, while internally seething. 'That Dornish whore should have stayed in her sickbed where she belongs. Probably had to be carried here on a litter like the weakling she is.'
"Is everything ready?" she asked sharply, turning to her maids.
"Yes, my lady."
"Help me with my cloak."
The maids hurried to fasten a crimson velvet cloak around her shoulders, secured with golden lion's head clasps. Cersei lifted her chin, adopting the regal bearing that came naturally to her. Let them all see what a true queen looked like. Let Rhaegar see what he could have had. And most importantly, let that Dornish woman see what real beauty was.
'You may have him now, Princess,' she thought as she prepared to make her entrance, 'but how long can a weak thing like you hope to keep him?'
.
.
The Hall of a Hundred Hearths lived up to its ancient name, with dozens of fireplaces casting dancing shadows across the massive blackened walls. Hundreds of candles in golden sconces added their light, making the hall gleam like a dragon's treasury. The ceiling vanished into darkness far above, while long tables stretched in parallel lines across the floor, each groaning under platters of food and flagons of wine.
Cersei entered on Jaime's arm, their golden hair catching the light in identical waves. She felt the room's attention shift, heard the slight pause in conversations, and savored it like the finest Arbor gold. Lords of the Westerlands immediately raised their cups in salute - the Westerlings, the Marbrands, even the dour Lefford managed a smile for the golden twins of Casterly Rock.
"Lady Cersei grows more beautiful by the day," she heard Lord Lydden say to his companion, loud enough to carry.
'As if there was ever any doubt,' she thought, allowing a perfectly measured smile to grace her lips.
She noticed several Storm Lords - including bronze-haired Lord Swann and the massive Grandison - watching her with undisguised interest. Even young Robert Baratheon, that loud oaf from Storm's End, paused in his drinking to stare. Cersei noted their attention with satisfaction while appearing not to notice at all.
The ladies' reactions were even more delicious. Lady Mallister's face went sour as vinegar when her husband's eyes followed Cersei's progress. Young Lysa Tully, sitting with her more comely sister Catelyn, clutched her cup so tightly her knuckles went white. And the Reach girls - those famous beauties from Highgarden and Oldtown - suddenly seemed to find their plates fascinating.
'Look all you want at my brother,' Cersei thought with smug satisfaction, noting how many female eyes were drawn to Jaime. 'Soon he'll wear a white cloak, and none of you will have him.'
Her father sat at the high table, his face a mask of rigid control that Cersei knew well. The slight tightness around his eyes, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw - oh yes, Father was furious. She could imagine the scene: Tywin Lannister, forced to kneel before the king he'd served as Hand, while Aerys made him wait just long enough to make it an insult.
The thought nearly made her laugh.
Her eyes drifted to the Stark table, where the Northern lords sat in their wool and furs, looking as out of place as aurochs in a flower garden. She searched for this supposedly great beauty she'd heard whispered about, expecting to find some lumbering she-bear. When she finally spotted Lyanna Stark, Cersei almost scoffed aloud.
The girl was pretty enough, she supposed, in a wild sort of way - all long face and dark hair, with none of the refinement a true lady should possess. Yet lords from both North and South kept stealing glances at her, including, Cersei noted with irritation, several who should know better.
"Lady Stark seems to be drawing quite a crowd," Jaime murmured, reading her thoughts as he often did.
"Men are easily impressed by novelty," Cersei replied quietly. "Put a dress on a horse and apparently they'll call it a beauty."
They passed the Dornish contingent, where Princess Elia sat beside Prince Rhaegar. Cersei forced herself to look at the woman who had stolen her destiny. The Dornishwoman was wearing a gown of orange silk that made her sallow skin look even more sickly, or so Cersei told herself.
"My prince," Cersei said as they passed, dropping into a perfect curtsy. "Princess." She kept her voice sweet as honey, though the last word tasted like ash in her mouth.
Rhaegar nodded politely, but his eyes seemed distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. 'Not for long,' Cersei promised herself. 'Soon you'll have no choice but to notice me.'
"Shall we find our seats?" Jaime asked, steering her toward their assigned table.
"In a moment," Cersei said, her eyes scanning the hall. The King was mercifully absent - likely hiding in his chambers, nursing his paranoia. But the rest of the great houses were all here: the Tullys with their river lord bannermen, the Arryns perched as proud as their falcon sigil, the Tyrells dripping in jewels and silk, trying too hard as always to appear regal.
Lord Whent had arranged the seating with careful attention to rank and politics. The Lannisters were given a place of honor, though not quite as close to the high table as Cersei felt they deserved. As they made their way to their seats, she noted with satisfaction how conversations seemed to follow in their wake.
"Lady Cersei," called out Ashara Dayne as they passed. "You must tell me who made your gown. It's absolutely stunning."
"A dressmaker in Lannisport," Cersei replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Though I'm afraid she only serves certain houses." The subtle insult made Ashara's perfect face flutter with anger before smoothing over.
They finally reached their seats, Jaime pulling out her chair with practiced courtesy. From this vantage point, Cersei could observe most of the hall while appearing to focus on her meal. The servants were bringing out the first course - a soup of autumn vegetables that steamed in golden bowls.
"You're playing a dangerous game, sweet sister," Jaime whispered as he sat beside her.
"I'm playing to win," she replied, raising her wine cup to her lips. "That's the only game that matters."
The feast continued, course after course of rich food accompanied by rivers of wine. Cersei ate sparingly, aware that every eye in the hall might fall on her at any moment. She watched as Robert Baratheon grew louder with each cup of wine, as Prince Rhaegar occasionally leaned over to whisper something to his frail wife.
'Enjoy it while you can, Princess,' Cersei thought, sipping her wine. 'Your hold on him won't last forever.'
.
.
Cersei found herself surrounded by ladies of the Westerlands, all eager to bask in the attention of their liege lord's daughter. Lady Jeyne Marbrand, resplendent in crimson and silver, leaned forward conspiratorially.
"My lady, is it true that Prince Rhaegar plays his harp in the halls of the Red Keep?" she asked, her eyes shining with romantic notions.
"When I visited King's Landing," Cersei replied smoothly, "the Prince often played in the evening. His music could move even the hardest heart to tears." She didn't mention that her own visits had been painfully brief, or that she'd only heard him play twice.
Lady Alysanne Lefford chimed in, "They say he composes his own songs."
"Indeed," said Cersei, taking a delicate sip of wine. "Though some matters are too... delicate to discuss." She let the implication hang in the air, watching as the ladies exchanged excited glances, undoubtedly imagining songs written about forbidden love.
"The tourney will be magnificent," declared Lady Darlessa Marbrand. "Will you favor any particular knight, my lady?"
Cersei's smile was perfectly practiced. "We shall see who proves worthy," she said, though in her heart, she knew only one knight could ever be worthy of her favor.
The conversation shifted to the ladies of the Stormlands, who had gathered nearby. Lady Jeyne Swann approached with several others, their elaborate hairstyles and rich gowns marking them as southron nobles.
"Lady Cersei," Jeyne said warmly, though her eyes were calculating. "We were just discussing the upcoming feast days. Will you join us?"
"Of course," Cersei replied, noting how the Stormlanders positioned themselves to include her in their circle while subtly excluding the Westerlands ladies. A petty power play, but one she would remember.
"Robert Baratheon can't keep his eyes off the Stark girl," whispered Lady Selmy conspiratorially. "Lord Steffon will be pleased - an alliance with the North would be valuable."
"If he can catch her," added another with a laugh. "They say she rides like a centaur and fights like a knight."
'How barbaric,' Cersei thought, but she merely smiled. "How... unusual."
The conversation continued until Catelyn Tully approached, her younger sister trailing behind her like an unwanted shadow. Catelyn was beautiful in a common sort of way, with her auburn hair and blue eyes, but she lacked the presence of a true lady of high birth.
"Lady Cersei," Catelyn greeted her with perfect courtesy. "I hope you're enjoying the feast?"
"Quite," Cersei replied. She noticed how Lysa Tully stared at her with an unsettling intensity, her eyes slightly too wide, her manner somewhat unhinged. 'The gods were not kind to Lord Hoster in his second daughter,' she thought.
"My betrothed is just there," Catelyn said proudly, gesturing toward the Stark table. "Brandon, the heir to Winterfell."
Cersei followed her gaze to where three young men sat together. Brandon Stark was handsome enough, she supposed, in a wild Northern way - dark-haired and strong-featured, laughing loudly at something his brother had said. The second brother was quieter, his eyes fixed across the hall where Ashara Dayne sat with her Dornish companions.
'How predictable,' Cersei thought. 'Another wolf pup howling at the moon.'
"He is quite handsome," Cersei said diplomatically, though in her mind, she compared Brandon's rough-hewn features to Rhaegar's ethereal beauty. The Stark heir might as well have been a stable boy next to her silver prince.
"He hurt Petyr!" Lysa suddenly shrieked, causing several nearby conversations to stop abruptly.
Catelyn's face flushed red with mortification as she grabbed her sister's arm. "Lysa!" she hissed, shooting Cersei an apologetic look.
"Who is this Petyr?" Cersei asked, her voice dripping with false concern. She watched as Lysa's face transformed, her eyes lighting up at the mere mention of the boy's name.
"Petyr Baelish," Lysa said eagerly, while Catelyn's face tightened with discomfort. "He's the most wonderful, clever boy. His father is the Lord of the Fingers-"
"The Fingers?" Cersei interrupted, struggling to maintain her composure. She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing outright. The Fingers were nothing but a collection of rocky shoals, bare hills, and sheep droppings. 'His father's entire keep could probably fit in our servants' quarters at Casterly Rock.'
"Yes!" Lysa continued, oblivious to Cersei's barely concealed mockery. "He's so brave and gallant. He challenged Brandon for Cat's hand, even though Brandon was so much bigger."
"How... ambitious of him," Cersei said silkily. "It must be quite challenging to maintain knightly aspirations when one's ancestral seat could be mistaken for a particularly ambitious shepherd's hut. Though I suppose even the smallest of birds must sometimes dream of soaring with dragons."
Catelyn's eyes narrowed slightly at the veiled insult, but Lysa remained blissfully unaware, still lost in her praise of Petyr.
"He's going to be somebody important someday," Lysa insisted, her voice taking on that slightly hysterical edge again. "You'll see!"
"Lysa, that's enough," Catelyn said sharply, grabbing her sister's hand. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. "Please excuse us, Lady Cersei. My sister is... overtired."
"Of course," Cersei replied smoothly. "Do take care of her. It must be so difficult when one's emotions overwhelm one's... sense of propriety."
She watched with satisfaction as Catelyn practically dragged her protesting sister away from the table, Lysa still mumbling about Petyr's virtues. 'The mighty House Tully,' Cersei thought with amusement. 'One daughter moon-eyed over a Northern barbarian, the other pining for a peasant who probably has to count his coppers to buy new boots.'
She took another sip of wine, savoring both its taste and her own sense of superiority. This was proving to be an entertaining evening after all.
She turned her attention back to the high table, where Rhaegar sat in quiet conversation with his wife. Even from this distance, his beauty took her breath away. What did it matter if some Northern savage was considered handsome by his own kind? Cersei knew the difference between a wolf and a dragon.
"More wine, my lady?" a servant asked.
"Yes," she replied, her eyes still on Rhaegar. "And bring the Arbor gold this time. This evening calls for something... superior."
.
.
The musicians struck up a lively tune, and Cersei found herself passed from one lordling to another like a precious jewel. First came Stannis Baratheon, stiff as a board and grinding his teeth throughout their entire dance. 'This one wouldn't know joy if it struck him in the face,' she thought as she endured his wooden movements.
Next was Paxter Redwyne, who stared at her chest so obviously she considered having him flogged. The Riverland lords followed - Patrek Mallister at least knew the steps, though he sweated profusely, and young Edmure Tully was more interested in impressing his watching sisters than paying attention to his partner.
When Mace Tyrell approached, puffed up like a proud peacock, Cersei suppressed a sigh. The Lord of Highgarden moved with all the grace of a drunken aurochs, stepping on her toes twice while prattling on about the magnificent harvests of the Reach.
"My lady wife says the roses are particularly beautiful this year," he declared, as if discussing flowers was the height of sophisticated conversation.
"How fascinating," Cersei replied, her smile never wavering even as she thought, 'The roses might be the only intelligent life in Highgarden.'
But then, as if the Seven themselves had decided to reward her patience, she heard a soft, melodious voice behind her.
"My lady, might I have this dance?"
Cersei turned to find Prince Rhaegar standing there, resplendent in black and red, his silver-gold hair falling past his shoulders. Her heart nearly stopped.
"The honor would be mine, my prince," she replied, taking his offered hand. His touch sent shivers through her body - his fingers were long and elegant, a warrior's strength tempered by an artist's grace.
As they moved onto the dance floor, Cersei felt every eye in the hall upon them. Let them look. Let them all see how perfectly matched they were, silver and gold, dragon and lion.
"You dance beautifully, my lady," Rhaegar said as they moved through the steps of the dance.
"My septa always said that grace in dancing reflects grace in spirit, my prince," Cersei replied, her green eyes meeting his violet ones.
"And do you believe that?"
"I believe that true grace comes from strength," she said carefully. "Like the grace of a lion before it strikes, or..." she paused meaningfully, "a dragon in flight."
A small smile touched Rhaegar's lips. "You have your father's wit, Lady Cersei."
"And his ambition," she added boldly, watching his reaction.
"Indeed?" Rhaegar's eyes seemed to look through her, into her very soul. "And what does the daughter of Casterly Rock ambition for?"
"Greatness," she replied without hesitation. "To be more than just another lady in a castle, hosting feasts and bearing children. To make history remember my name."
"A dangerous ambition in these times," he said softly, but she detected interest in his voice.
"These are dangerous times, my prince. Perhaps they require dangerous ambitions."
They turned together, their movements perfectly synchronized. Cersei could see Princess Elia watching them, her face carefully composed, but there was worry in her dark eyes. 'Good,' Cersei thought. 'Let her worry.'
"Tell me, my prince," Cersei continued, "do you not tire of the same conversations at every feast? The same empty courtesies, the same tedious discussions of weather and harvests?"
"You suggest there are more interesting topics?"
"I suggest that a prince who reads ancient scrolls and composes songs that make hardened warriors weep might occasionally wish for conversation that challenges his mind."
Rhaegar's eyes sharpened with interest. "You know of my studies?"
"I make it my business to know what matters, my prince. The prophecies, the legends, the songs of ice and fire - they're all pieces of a greater mystery, are they not?"
For the first time, she saw real animation in his usually melancholic features. "You've read the ancient texts?"
"As many as I could find in Casterly Rock's library. Though I suspect the Red Keep's collection is far more... comprehensive."
The dance was ending, but Rhaegar seemed reluctant to let go of her hand. "Perhaps we might continue this conversation another time, Lady Cersei. Your insights are... intriguing."
"I am at your service, my prince," she replied, dropping into a perfect curtsy. As she rose, she met his eyes one last time. "Always."
She watched him return to the high table, her heart racing beneath her composed exterior. She had done it - captured his attention, shown him she was more than just a pretty face. Let his sickly wife arrange flowers and embroider handkerchiefs; Cersei could match Rhaegar in matters of real importance.
'Soon,' she promised herself, accepting a cup of wine from a passing servant. 'Soon you'll see that I am the only one worthy of you, my prince. The only one strong enough to help you achieve your destiny.'
The hall fell silent as Rhaegar took up his silver-stringed harp. Even the serving maids stopped their work, entranced as the first notes filled the air. When his voice joined the melody, Cersei felt her heart might burst.
He sang of Jenny of Oldstones, of her ghost dancing with her prince. Cersei watched as tears rolled down countless cheeks - even the wild Stark girl was weeping openly. 'Foolish child,' Cersei thought, noting how Lyanna tried to hide her tears from her brothers. 'As if a northern savage could truly appreciate such beauty.'
But Cersei didn't cry. She sat perfectly still, letting the music wash over her like waves against the shores of Casterly Rock. This was what it meant to be royal - not just to rule, but to move people's very souls.
The next day, she found him in the castle's library, surrounded by dusty tomes.
"My prince," she said softly, making sure to seem surprised at finding him there. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
Rhaegar looked up, his indigo eyes brightening with recognition. "Lady Cersei. Not at all. I was just reading about the Doom of Valyria."
She moved closer, noting which books lay open before him. "The signs and portents that preceded it? Fascinating. I've always wondered about the connection between the Fourteen Flames and the dragons themselves."
His eyebrows rose slightly. "You've studied the Doom?"
"What better way to understand the rise of House Targaryen than to understand what they rose from?" She picked up one of the books. "Though I find the accounts of Daenys the Dreamer particularly intriguing."
"The prophetic dreams," he said, leaning forward. "Yes, they're crucial to understanding..."
They spent hours discussing ancient prophecies and dragon lore. Cersei made sure to ask just the right questions, to show genuine interest in his theories while maintaining an air of mystery herself.
Three days later, she encountered him in the godswood, where he often went to think.
"The old gods seem to speak to you," she observed, approaching quietly.
"Perhaps they do," he replied, not turning from the heart tree. "Though their words are often unclear."
"Like prophecies," she said, moving to stand beside him. "Sometimes what seems obvious at first glance holds deeper meaning."
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and Cersei felt her pulse quicken.
"You understand," he said softly.
"More than you know," she replied.
Their conversations continued throughout the week. She found him practicing swordplay early one morning, his movements as graceful as his music.
"The warrior prince," she said, watching from the shadows of the practice yard.
"Would you prefer the scholar?" he asked, lowering his blade.
"Why choose?" she countered. "The greatest kings were both. Aegon the Conqueror was as comfortable with a book as with Blackfyre."
His smile then was different - warmer, more genuine than his usual melancholic expression.
Five days after the feast, she found him atop the highest tower, watching the sunset.
"Gold and crimson," she said, joining him. "Like the banners of my house."
"And blood and fire, like mine," he added, watching the clouds burn.
"Perhaps the gods themselves approve of such a combination," she suggested carefully.
His silence spoke volumes.
On the seventh day, she discovered him in an abandoned part of the castle, where old tapestries gathered dust and forgotten statues stood sentinel.
"Do you believe in fate, my prince?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I believe in prophecy," he replied, turning to face her. "In destiny."
"And what does destiny tell you now?"
He moved closer, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light filtering through the high windows. "That some songs must be sung, no matter the cost."
"And some attractions cannot be denied," she added, her heart pounding.
When he kissed her, it was everything she had dreamed of and more. His lips were soft but insistent, his hands gentle as they cupped her face.
"My prince," she breathed when they finally parted.
"Cersei," he said, and her name on his lips was sweeter than any song.
But even as she reveled in her triumph, she saw that familiar distance in his eyes - that look that suggested he was seeing beyond her, beyond this moment, to some greater purpose.
"What troubles you?" she asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
"The dragon must have three heads,"
.
.
The crown of winter roses fell into Cersei's lap. The crowd fell silent, then erupted in cheers - all except the Dornish contingent, who watched with barely concealed fury as Rhaegar named another woman his Queen of Love and Beauty while Princess Elia sat with their daughter.
That night, in a secluded tower where even the spiders couldn't reach, Cersei gave herself to her silver prince. His touches were gentle, his kisses fierce, and when it was over, she felt complete.
"The dragon must have three heads," he whispered against her hair. "And you, my golden lioness, will help bring the third one into the world."
But their dream shattered like glass against stone when Prince Rhaegar returned to King's Landing one month later. The King's paranoia had reached new heights, his ravings about traitors growing more frequent and violent.
"The Starks," Aerys spat during a small council meeting, his long yellowed nails scratching the wooden table. "Always the Starks. For thousands of years, they kept to themselves, and now suddenly they reach south?"
Rhaegar tried to reason with him. "Father, these marriages are natural alliances-"
"Natural?" Aerys screeched. "Was it natural when the Blackfyres gathered supporters through marriage? When the Dance of Dragons tore the realm apart because of who married whom?"
Varys stepped forward, his soft slippers making no sound on the stone floor. "Your Grace, I have troubling news. There were discussions between Houses Tully and Lannister regarding a match between Lysa Tully and Jaime Lannister, before he joined the Kingsguard."
"You see?" Aerys's eyes bulged. "They planned to encircle us! Stark, Tully, Baratheon, Lannister - all united against the dragon!"
"Your Grace," Pycelle intervened, his chain clinking. "Perhaps we should-"
"Silence!" Aerys rose, his shadow dancing grotesquely in the torchlight. "I want Rickard Stark here. Now. Let him answer for his treachery!"
When Lord Stark arrived three weeks later, he found no welcome party, no honored guest chambers. Instead, he and his guards were seized immediately. Rhaegar was away at Dragonstone when it happened, having been sent there by his father on some pretense.
The throne room was packed that fateful day. Lords and ladies watched in horror as Aerys accused Rickard Stark of treason. The evidence was nonsensical - marriage alliances twisted into conspiracy, ancient Northern independence painted as current rebellion.
"Your Grace," Stark said, his voice steady even in chains. "I have served the throne faithfully-"
"Lies!" Aerys shrieked. "You plot with the Storm Lord and the Trout! Your son marries south, your daughter marries south - you reach for a crown!"
"I reach for nothing but peace and prosperity for the realm," Stark replied.
"Then let fire judge the truth of your words," Aerys smiled, and that smile sent chills through the court.
When they brought in the wildfire, they all watched from behind a pillar as they suspended Lord Stark above the green flames, as his screams echoed through the hall. The smell of burning flesh would haunt everyone's dreams for years to come.
But it was what came after that truly began the war. Aerys, drunk on power and madness, demanded more heads for his collection.
"Bring me Brandon Stark!" he commanded. "Bring me Robert Baratheon! Bring me Hoster Tully! Let them all burn!"
The ravens flew out that very night, carrying demands that would set the realm ablaze. In his chambers, Varys watched the birds take wing and whispered, "The fire rises."
In Dragonstone, Rhaegar received the news with horror. His message to Cersei was brief but clear: "Everything has changed. The song must be different now."
Cersei read his words and felt her world crumbling. She knew what war meant - her father had taught her well. The realm would bleed, and all their dreams of destiny might burn as surely as Rickard Stark had burned.
Within days, ravens returned - not with heads, but with declarations of war. Jon Arryn raised his banners first, refusing to hand over his ward Robert Baratheon. The North rose in fury, Brandon Stark calling his father's banners while simultaneously strengthening his ties to Riverrun. The Storm Lords rallied to Robert's cause, their fury stoked by both Stark's death and the threat to their lord.
And in King's Landing, Aerys descended further into madness, seeing traitors in every shadow. He ordered the City Watch doubled, demanded that every raven be intercepted, and began storing wildfire throughout the city.
"Let them come," he muttered, staring at the Iron Throne. "Let them all come. We'll burn them all."
The moon rose over King's Landing, casting long shadows through the windows of the Red Keep. Somewhere in those shadows, Varys's little birds carried whispers of war. In the throne room, Aerys muttered to himself, seeing enemies in every corner. And in her chambers in Casterly Rock, Cersei Lannister placed a hand over her belly and prayed - not to the Seven, but to destiny itself.
The realm would burn, but from its ashes, something new would rise. She had to believe that.
Tywin Lannister - 14 Months Later
The chamber door flew open with such force that it made the servants jump. Tywin Lannister's towering presence filled the doorway, his shadow stretching across the floor like a dark omen.
"Father, please," Cersei's voice cracked. "Please, just listen-"
Tywin's boots echoed against the stone floor as he approached the huddled servants. His eyes, cold as winter, fixed on the bundle of blankets. Without a word, he snatched the child from the trembling servant's arms.
"No!" Cersei lunged forward, but the guards held her back. "Father, I beg you!"
The baby's crying ceased as Tywin held him up, studying him like he might examine a curious artifact. Those eyes - Lannister green, but the hair... that damning mixture of silver and gold that could only come from one source.
"How long?" Tywin's voice was quiet, which made it all the more terrifying.
"Father-"
"How. Long?"
Cersei's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Since Harrenhal. We were married in secret, before the old gods and new. He is trueborn, Father. His name is Daenor Targaryen."
"Targaryen," Tywin repeated the name like it was poison. "The same Targaryens that Robert Baratheon is systematically destroying? The same Targaryens whose prince lies dead in the Trident, his rubies scattered in the water? The same Targaryens who are not dead only because of Jon Arryn's mercy."
The baby reached up, tiny fingers grasping at air. For a moment, something flickered in Tywin's eyes - perhaps remembrance of holding his own children, once upon a time.
"Robert will kill him," Cersei said, her voice breaking. "Like he means to kill Rhaegar's other children. Please, Father. He's your grandson."
"My grandson?" Tywin turned, his voice sharp. "My grandson would be the heir to Casterly Rock, not a dragon's bastard-"
"He's not a bastard!" Cersei wrenched free from the guards. "We were married! Rhaegar legitimized him! He's a prince of the blood!"
"A dead prince's son," Tywin corrected coldly. "Do you know what Robert does to Targaryen children, Cersei? What he's likely doing to Rhaegar's other children even now? Jon Arryn is the only thing keeping Rhaenys Targaryen from becoming a pool of blood."
Cersei went pale. "Father... he's innocent. He's your blood."
Tywin looked down at the child again. The boy had stopped crying completely now, looking up at his grandfather with curious eyes. There was intelligence in that gaze, a quiet observation that reminded Tywin painfully of Joanna.
"Leave us," he commanded the guards and servants. "All of you."
When they were alone, Cersei approached cautiously, like one might approach a lion with prey in its jaws. "Father..."
"Do you know what Aerys did?" Tywin's voice was distant, as if speaking from memory. "When I offered you as a bride for Rhaegar? He laughed. Said my servant was not fit to marry his son."
"And now his son's blood runs in your grandson's veins," Cersei said softly. "The grandson of both lion and dragon."
Tywin's jaw clenched. "A grandson who will never sit the Iron Throne. Never rule the Seven Kingdoms. Never even acknowledge his father's name, if he wishes to live, but who knows...in the future...he might be useful."
Hope flickered in Cersei's eyes. "Then... you won't..."
"The child will live," Tywin decided, his voice hard. "But Daenor Targaryen does not exist, at least for now. This is Adrian Lannister, my bastard son from a serving girl who died in childbirth."
Cersei's eyes widened. "Father?"
"The timing fits. The war has kept me away from Casterly Rock long enough that few would question it. The hair can be explained away - the serving girl could have been of Lysene descent."
"You would claim him as your own?"
"Better a lion's bastard than a dragon's trueborn in these times," Tywin said grimly. "He will be raised at Casterly Rock, far from King's Landing and Robert's wrath. You will not acknowledge him as yours. Ever. Do you understand?"
Tears rolled down Cersei's cheeks as she nodded. "I understand."
"The servants who know?"
"They're loyal to me, Father. They've kept the secret this long."
"They'll be taken care of," Tywin declared. "All of them. Better than one of them saying the wrong thing."
Cersei flinched but didn't argue.
"And you," Tywin continued, "will marry Robert Baratheon. You will be queen, as you always wanted. But not as a dragon's wife - as a stag's."
"What about Lyanna Stark, wasn't she supposed to marry him?" Cersei questioned, remembering words from the Tourney that she was betrothed to Robert Baratheon.
"I don't know what happened, but the betrothal is broken between them. Robert will have to marry someone, and who better than the daughter of the most powerful house in Westeros. The septon who married you and Rhaegar. I will find him, let's hope he didn't tell anyone that he married the two of you."
"Yes, Father," Cersei whispered, her eyes fixed on her son, still cradled in Tywin's arms.
The baby made a small sound, almost like a laugh, and grabbed at Tywin's finger. For a brief moment, something that might have been tenderness crossed the Lord of Casterly Rock's face.
"He has the Lannister eyes," Tywin observed. "Like your mother's."
"Like mine," Cersei added softly. "And like his will be the only ones to know the truth."
Tywin nodded once, his decision made. "Have the wet nurse ready him for travel. We leave for Casterly Rock tonight."
As Cersei moved to take her son one last time, to say goodbye to the prince who would become a bastard, Tywin added: "The gods play strange games, daughter. Aerys refused to let his son marry my daughter. Now his son's son will be raised as mine."
"A lion wearing a dragon's skin," Cersei murmured, kissing her baby's forehead.
"No," Tywin corrected. "Just a lion. The dragon in him must die here, tonight. For his own sake."
As Tywin watched his daughter say goodbye to her son, he wondered if this was the gods' justice or their jest. Either way, he would turn it to House Lannister's advantage. He always did.
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