The air was thick with the scent of Dornish wine and candle smoke, the flickering flames casting long shadows across the lavish chamber. Despite the warmth of the evening, an unmistakable tension hung in the air—not of conflict, but of something deeper. A shift in the tides. A moment of revelation.
Jon Snow exhaled slowly, gripping the goblet in his hand as he glanced at Harry. They had both agreed—Rhaenys had earned their trust. But saying the words aloud made them real, made the weight of what they had discovered heavier.
"Rhaenys," Jon began, his voice low, steady, but carrying the gravity of the truth he was about to unveil. "There's something you should know." He paused, searching her face. "While in the crypts of Winterfell, I found Blackfyre—the sword of Aegon the Conqueror—along with four dragon eggs."
Rhaenys froze mid-motion, her fingers tightening around the stem of her goblet. For a moment, she was still, her mind catching up to what she had just heard. Then, slowly, she reached up to the pendant around her neck, as if seeking some kind of anchor.
"Blackfyre?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. Then, stronger, eyes flashing with disbelief, "Dragon eggs? In Winterfell?"
Harry, lounging back in his chair with the ease of a man who had long since come to terms with the impossible, nodded. "Aye," he said, taking a sip of his wine before setting the goblet aside. "Hidden in a secret chamber beneath the crypts. It wasn't just dust and bones down there—there were things buried that were never meant to be found."
Dany, seated beside Harry, leaned forward slightly, her violet eyes burning with something between fascination and reverence. "When I arrived in Winterfell, I brought three more eggs with me," she added, her voice carrying that faint, almost musical lilt—her usual measured articulation betraying hints of her mother's French accent. "Their origins are… enigmatic, but they are real, and we believe they hold the key to restoring our house's strength."
Rhaenys inhaled sharply, looking between them. Her hands trembled slightly as she set her goblet down. "This is incredible," she murmured, almost to herself. Then, after a pause, her expression turned wary. "But how did Blackfyre end up in Winterfell? That sword was lost after the Blackfyre Rebellion."
Jon shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted, running a hand through his curls. "Maybe one of our ancestors put it there for safekeeping. Maybe it was stolen, hidden away to keep it out of the hands of pretenders. All I know is, it was there, waiting."
Rhaenys exhaled, processing the weight of it all. But then, she straightened, something shifting in her posture. A decision made.
"I have something to share as well," she said, voice steady now. Her dark eyes met Harry's, something unreadable in their depths. "I possess Dark Sister."
Silence stretched across the chamber, taut as a bowstring.
Jon stiffened. Harry's brows lifted. Dany blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
"The sword of Visenya?" Harry asked, slowly.
Rhaenys nodded. "Our father left it at Sunspear before the Tourney at Harrenhal," she explained. "No one knows how he acquired it. It was thought lost. But there it was, waiting, just as you said." Her lips parted slightly before she continued, "And I also have a dragon egg. Uncle Oberyn brought it back from Asshai."
There was a sharp intake of breath from Dany. Even Jon looked taken aback.
"Asshai?" he echoed, as if the name alone left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Oberyn Martell, who had been leaning back in his chair with the easy confidence of a man who had seen and done things few others could imagine, chuckled. "Ah, you Northerners," he said, shaking his head. "So dramatic. Yes, I brought back an egg from Asshai. And let me tell you, that city is a place of wonders and nightmares alike. It is a city of whispers, where shadows move without light to cast them."
Ellaria, reclining beside him, smirked. "And, naturally, he saw fit to bring a dragon egg home. Along with a few... other souvenirs."
Nymeria Sand rolled her eyes. "Souvenirs," she muttered. "Is that what we call them now?"
Tyene giggled, propping her chin on her hand. "Careful, sister. Father's 'souvenirs' have a tendency to be quite... lively."
Oberyn smirked, but his gaze was thoughtful as it flickered between Harry and Rhaenys. "The dragons are waking, it seems," he mused. "Or rather, they have been waiting to wake. The question is—how do you intend to make them rise from stone?"
All eyes turned to Harry.
The flickering candlelight cast golden reflections in his green eyes, making them appear almost molten. He didn't answer immediately, instead allowing the tension to stretch, watching them, weighing their reactions. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
"I have a plan," he said. His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of steel beneath it. "But it's not something I can fully disclose yet. The methods are... unconventional."
Oberyn lifted an eyebrow. "Magic often is."
Rhaenys, who had been watching Harry intently, leaned closer. "What kind of methods?" she pressed, her voice quiet but insistent.
Harry hesitated. His gaze flickered to Dany, then back to Rhaenys. "The conditions have to be right," he said finally. "The place. The moment. There are forces at work beyond just fire and blood. We need Moat Cailin."
Jon exhaled sharply. "You really think that place is the key?"
"I do," Harry said simply.
Ellaria, who had been silent for most of the discussion, finally spoke, her voice rich and knowing. "You are playing with forces older than any of us," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "And yet, you seem unafraid."
Harry met her gaze with a small, almost roguish smirk. "Fear is just another tool," he said. "Useful, if you know how to wield it."
Obara snorted. "And here I thought Northerners lacked poetry."
Nymeria smirked. "Only the dull ones do."
Oberyn watched Harry for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Very well," he said, swirling his wine. "I will support this venture. But be warned—there are those who do not wish to see dragons return. And they are not the type to play fair."
Harry's smile didn't waver. "Neither am I."
Rhaenys studied him for another moment, something shifting in her expression. Then, slowly, she smiled. "Then I suppose it's time we prepared for a new dawn."
Dany, silent until now, finally exhaled, her gaze lingering on Harry and Rhaenys for just a beat too long before she spoke. "Yes," she agreed, voice soft but resolute. "It is."
The night wore on, but the words spoken in that chamber would linger. The fire had been lit. Now, it was only a matter of time before it burned away the old world and forged something new in its place.
And as Rhaenys stole another glance at Harry—one that did not go unnoticed by Dany—she knew that this was only the beginning.
—
The chamber was bathed in the golden flicker of candlelight, the scent of myrrh and Dornish wine thick in the air. Plush cushions of deep crimson and gold sprawled across the expansive bed, their silken embrace welcoming the two figures entwined upon them.
Daario Naharis reclined with the effortless grace of a man accustomed to luxury, one arm draped lazily over his chest, the other holding a goblet of wine he had barely touched. His smirk was that of a predator at rest, a man who found as much amusement in conversation as he did in battle. His blue eyes gleamed with mischief, the golden hilt of his curved dagger catching the candlelight at his belt.
The woman beside him—Maegan—was a vision of calculated allure, her raven-black hair spilling over bare shoulders like ink upon silk. Every motion she made was slow, deliberate, designed to entice. She moved with a feline grace, her body a masterpiece of temptation, her lips painted the deep shade of blood-red roses.
She traced the rim of her own goblet with one finger, watching him over the rim with a smoldering gaze. "You seem quite comfortable here, Daario," she murmured, her voice smooth as honey and laced with something sharper beneath the surface. "For a man who makes his fortune on the battlefield, you wear silk sheets well."
Daario chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. He turned onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he studied her with a smirk. "A man of my talents deserves a bit of comfort now and then, don't you think? War is an exhausting business."
Maegan hummed, leaning closer. "Is that what brings you to King's Landing? War?" Her fingers, feather-light, trailed down his chest, nails grazing skin just enough to send a shiver through him. "Or something more… delicate?"
Daario exhaled a soft laugh, reaching up to brush a lock of her hair from her face. His hand lingered, tracing the curve of her jaw with the pad of his thumb. "Would it be so shocking if I said both? Some wars are fought with swords, others with whispers."
Maegan arched a brow, lips curving. "And which battle are you fighting tonight?"
Daario rolled onto his back, hands folding behind his head as he grinned up at the ceiling. "Ah, but that would be telling, wouldn't it?"
Maegan shifted, straddling him in one fluid motion, her thighs pressing against his hips as she leaned down, her lips ghosting over his. "Oh, I don't believe that," she purred. "You love to tell stories, Daario Naharis. You love to hear yourself speak."
Daario smirked. "Guilty."
She let her lips brush against his in a whisper of a kiss before pulling back, her nails dragging lightly down his abdomen. "So tell me one," she coaxed. "A tale of a handsome sellsword in a strange city, caught in the web of politics and power. A man with secrets worth keeping… or spilling."
Daario chuckled, his fingers trailing up her sides with idle amusement. "I like a woman who knows how to ask the right questions. But tell me, Maegan, are you here to keep me warm or to unravel me?"
Her smile deepened, wicked and knowing. "Can't it be both?"
Daario let out a low hum of approval. "You're a dangerous woman."
She leaned down, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his jaw, her breath warm against his skin. "And yet, here you are… utterly defenseless."
Daario chuckled, gripping her waist with firm hands. "That's what you think." He flipped her over in a swift, practiced motion, pinning her beneath him, their bodies flush against each other. His weight pressed down, his smirk widening as she let out a soft gasp of feigned surprise.
Maegan gazed up at him, eyes dark and glinting with challenge. "Mmm… maybe not so defenseless after all."
Daario smirked. "Oh, sweet Megan, I am many things—but defenseless? Never." He brushed a kiss along her collarbone, reveling in the way her breath hitched. "Now, about that story…"
Maegan arched her back slightly, pressing against him in a way that made his breath come just a little sharper. "Tell me a good one, then. One about why a man like you, a sellsword with no master, finds himself tangled in the affairs of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis, and a dragon princess."
Daario froze—just for a fraction of a second. A pause so slight most men wouldn't have noticed it. But Megan was not most men.
She smiled. Got him.
Daario chuckled again, but there was a guarded edge now, a flicker of awareness in his eyes. "Now that," he mused, "is a story worth a great deal of gold."
Maegan tilted her head, brushing her lips against his ear. "And yet, you've already begun to tell it."
Daario exhaled through his nose, fingers idly tracing patterns against her bare skin. "Perhaps I have. Or perhaps I'm just enjoying the company."
Maegan trailed her nails down his back, slow, teasing. "Perhaps both."
Another soft chuckle. "Perhaps."
But the damage had already been done.
By the time the candles burned lower, by the time Daario had let slip more than he intended in the haze of wine and whispered pleasures, Maegan knew what she needed to know. Knew that he was here at Illyrio's behest. Knew that Daenerys Targaryen was meant for a Khal's bed, meant to be a broodmare for a warlord with armies of horsemen at his back.
She let Daario drift into the sweet embrace of sleep, his arm slung lazily over her waist, his smirk still lingering on his lips even in slumber.
Carefully, she slid out from beneath him, dressing with the same deliberate grace she had undressed with.
Before she left, she leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. Daario stirred, just barely, but didn't wake.
"Sweet dreams, my dear Daario," she whispered.
And then she was gone, slipping into the shadows, her steps silent, her mind racing.
She had a message to deliver.
By the time Daario woke, the night's pleasures still lingering on his skin, he would have no idea just how much he had given away. Or the danger now waiting for him in the days to come.
The candles flickered one last time before dying out, leaving the chamber in darkness.
—
The streets of King's Landing were a treacherous maze of filth and shadows, but Maegan moved through them with a predator's grace, her steps light and sure. The lingering scent of Daario's cologne clung to her skin, mixing with the salt of sweat and the faint perfume she had used to set the mood. The thrill of deception still burned in her veins, but she kept her wits about her. This city was not kind to those who let their guard down.
She slipped through a narrow alley, past a pair of drunkards brawling over a spilt cup of ale, and emerged into a quieter corner near the ruins of an old sept. There, waiting in the gloom, was Ser Daemon Sand. He stood with his arms crossed, his lean, muscular frame tense beneath his leather jerkin. The flickering torchlight caught the sharp angles of his face, his olive skin and dark curls making him look more Dornish than he probably wanted to in a place like this. His dark eyes flicked up at her approach, and though his expression was neutral, the way he shifted on his feet betrayed his impatience.
"Took you long enough," he muttered, his voice edged with that dry Dornish drawl.
Maegan smirked, tilting her head as she sauntered closer. "Good things take time, Ser Daemon. Besides, I had to make it convincing." She trailed a finger along the collar of his jerkin, her touch lingering just long enough to make him shift uncomfortably. "Or do you think Daario Naharis is the kind of man who spills secrets without a little… persuasion?"
Daemon exhaled sharply, stepping back. "Just tell me what you learned."
Maegan rolled her eyes but obliged. "He's here for Daenerys Targaryen. Illyrio Mopatis sent him to retrieve her and bring her back to Pentos."
Daemon frowned. "To what end?"
She leaned against a crumbling wall, the cool stone pressing against her bare back where her dress dipped scandalously low. "To wed her to Khal Drogo. Illyrio wants a Targaryen-Dothraki alliance. He believes if she births a son with the blood of Old Valyria and the strength of the Great Stallion, he'll have the key to Westeros in his hands."
Daemon muttered a curse in his native tongue, his jaw tightening. "So that's their game. They mean to use her as a pawn to control the Dothraki."
"Daario doesn't love the plan," Maegan added, her voice lilting with amusement. "But he's loyal to Illyrio. At least for now." She stepped closer, letting her voice drop to a whisper. "And he has his own angle."
Daemon's gaze snapped to hers. "What angle?"
She smiled, slow and knowing. "He intends to seduce her first. Make her believe she has a choice. Make her believe he's her knight, her protector." She traced a lazy circle on his chest with one manicured nail. "And then, when she trusts him completely, he'll deliver her right into Illyrio's waiting hands."
Daemon inhaled through his nose, his fingers twitching at his side like he wanted to punch something. "That bastard."
Maegan hummed in agreement. "But he's charming, I'll give him that. He might actually pull it off if she's naïve enough."
Daemon clenched his jaw, his mind already racing. "We need to reach her before he does."
She watched him carefully, noting the way his body tensed, the way his lips pressed together in a thin line. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that, Ser Daemon? Daario has resources, contacts. He's good at what he does." She paused, letting her words sink in before adding, "And let's not forget that he doesn't know he's been compromised yet. But once he does…" She trailed off, her lips curving into a smirk.
Daemon exhaled heavily. "Then we don't have much time."
"No, we don't." She reached out, catching his wrist before he could turn away. Her grip was firm, her fingers warm against his skin. "I did my part, Ser. Now tell me—what's yours?"
His dark eyes met hers, something fierce burning in them. "I'm going to find Daenerys before he does. And I'm going to make damn sure she doesn't fall into Illyrio's trap."
Maegan let go of his wrist, stepping back with a satisfied smirk. "Well then, I suppose I'll see you around."
Daemon hesitated for half a second, as if considering saying something more, but then he turned and melted into the shadows.
Maegan watched him go, a slow smile playing on her lips. "Careful, Ser Daemon," she murmured to herself, running a hand through her dark waves. "Daario isn't the only one who knows how to play the game."
With that, she disappeared into the night, the city swallowing her whole.
—
Ser Daemon Sand rode hard through the winding streets of King's Landing, his cloak billowing behind him as he urged his horse forward. The night was thick with the mingling scents of the city—salt from Blackwater Bay, smoke from guttering torches, the ever-present stench of unwashed bodies. He barely noticed. His mind was fixed on one destination: Prince Oberyn's chambers.
The doors to Chataya's establishment loomed ahead, its red lanterns swaying in the breeze. Ser Daemon dismounted, tossing his reins to a stable boy without a word. His boots hit the ground running as he shoved through the entrance, ignoring the scandalized gasps of the ladies within. He stormed through the corridors with singular purpose until he reached Oberyn's private quarters.
The scent of spiced wine and myrrh hung in the air. Oberyn Martell reclined on a chaise, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, a goblet of Dornish red in his hand. The man looked at ease, as if he had all the time in the world, but Ser Daemon knew better. Oberyn was a viper—coiled, waiting.
The prince's dark eyes flicked up as Daemon entered, reading the urgency in his stance. He exhaled through his nose, setting his wine aside. "You're early," Oberyn murmured, stretching like a well-fed cat. "Or late, depending on which woman you ask."
"There's no time for games, my prince," Daemon said, breathless from his ride. "I found out why Daario Naharis is in King's Landing. He's here on Illyrio Mopatis' orders."
Oberyn's fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns along the chaise, stilled. His lips curled in amusement, but his eyes sharpened. "Daario Naharis," he mused. "A peacock of a man, no? Blue hair, gold tooth, thinks himself charming." He studied Daemon, curiosity overtaking his amusement. "What does our peacock want?"
"To find Daenerys Targaryen," Daemon said grimly. "And deliver her to Illyrio."
The room's warmth turned suffocating. Oberyn leaned forward, his wine forgotten. "Tell me everything," he commanded, and there was nothing lazy about him now.
Daemon did. He recounted Maegan's encounter with Naharis, her careful seduction, the morsels of information he had let slip between flirtations. "Illyrio means to wed her to Khal Drogo," Daemon said, jaw tightening. "A Dothraki warlord. They want her womb. They want her to bear a child with Targaryen blood so the Dothraki will follow them to Westeros."
Oberyn inhaled slowly, then let the breath out in a hiss. "So the Magister of Pentos fancies himself a kingmaker," he murmured. "And Naharis is his errand boy."
"There's more," Daemon continued. "Naharis intends to win her trust. He'll seduce her, make her believe she has a choice—until it's too late."
Oberyn chuckled, low and dangerous. "How generous of him. And if she resists?"
Daemon met his gaze, and Oberyn saw the answer in his silence.
A muscle in Oberyn's jaw ticked. He stood, rolling his shoulders as if shedding his previous indulgence like an old skin. "Where is she?" he asked, voice deceptively soft.
Daemon hesitated. "I don't know."
Oberyn's smile was sharp. "But I do."
Daemon's brows furrowed. "How—"
"My dear Sand," Oberyn said, resting a hand on Daemon's shoulder, "if I don't wish for something to be found, it stays hidden." His grip tightened, his tone turning to steel. "Daenerys Targaryen will not fall into Illyrio's hands. I swear it."
Daemon exhaled, the tension in his chest easing—slightly. "Then what do we do?"
Oberyn stepped away, reaching for his belt, where a dagger gleamed in the candlelight. "We remind Daario Naharis that there are worse things than breaking an oath to Illyrio Mopatis."
A slow, satisfied grin spread across Daemon's face. "Shall I arrange a meeting?"
Oberyn turned, his own smirk answering. "Oh, my dear boy." He twirled the dagger between his fingers. "I think I'll pay the peacock a visit myself."
—
As the door clicked shut behind Ser Daemon Sand, Oberyn barely had time to exhale before another presence slipped into the room.
Nymeria Sand moved like a shadow, stepping into the candlelight with the quiet confidence of a woman who had spent her entire life learning how to navigate a world of power, danger, and men who underestimated her. She studied her father with sharp, knowing eyes, taking in the tension coiled beneath his usually relaxed posture. The way his fingers tapped against the arm of his chair, the tightness at the corners of his mouth—something was wrong.
"Father," she said, crossing her arms, her voice calm but edged with curiosity, "what's happened?"
Oberyn sighed, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the weight settling on them. "A sellsword with questionable taste and an even worse sense of loyalty has just arrived in King's Landing." He picked up his goblet of Dornish red, swirled it absently, then set it back down without drinking. "Daario Naharis."
Nymeria raised an eyebrow, leaning against the desk. "The Tyroshi?"
"The very same," Oberyn confirmed. "He's here on behalf of Illyrio Mopatis, looking for Daenerys Targaryen." His voice lost its usual silkiness, turning sharp as a blade. "Illyrio means to deliver her to Khal Drogo, wrapped in silks and chains."
Nymeria's expression hardened, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "And they don't know that Daenerys is here. That she's Fleur Peverell."
"Not yet," Oberyn said, running a hand over his beard. "But secrets in this city have a habit of unraveling like a Dornish woman's dress after enough wine." He leaned back, watching his daughter with an amused glint in his eye. "And if there's one thing we know, my love, it's men like Daario Naharis."
Nymeria scoffed. "Men who think they're charming enough to get what they want without realizing they're just another piece on the board."
Oberyn grinned, pride flashing in his gaze. "Exactly." Then his expression darkened. "But he is dangerous. Clever in his own way. If Illyrio has sent him, it means he thinks she can still be found. We need to move quickly."
He turned, reaching for a parchment and quill. His script was elegant but swift, each letter formed with precise intent. Nymeria leaned in slightly, reading as he wrote.
—
Lord Hadrian Peverell,
It seems our friend from Pentos has sent an unwelcome guest to our city. Daario Naharis, a sellsword with more ambition than loyalty, is in King's Landing, sniffing for a trail that must remain buried. His orders are simple: find Daenerys Targaryen and bring her to Illyrio Mopatis so she may be delivered to Khal Drogo.
This cannot be allowed to happen.
Time is not on our side. If he is here, it means Illyrio suspects she is closer than he imagined. It means others may come after him. You know what must be done. Protect her. Ensure that Naharis finds nothing but dead ends and shadows.
I have no doubt you will handle this with the necessary… efficiency.
With urgency,
Prince Oberyn Martell
—
Oberyn pressed his signet ring into the crimson wax, the sun and spear of House Martell standing stark against the parchment. He lifted the note, weighing it in his hand before offering it to Nymeria.
"You're taking this to Peverell," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Personally."
Nymeria took the letter, her fingers brushing against his as she met his gaze. "You don't trust anyone else to deliver it."
"I trust very few, sweet girl," Oberyn admitted with a wry smile. "And in this city, trust is like good wine—it's best when it's kept close."
Nymeria tucked the letter into her belt, adjusting the hilt of the dagger at her hip. "I'll make sure he understands the full gravity of the situation."
Oberyn reached out, his fingers briefly cupping her cheek before he let his hand fall away. "I know you will." His expression softened, but only for a moment. "Go. Time is short."
Nymeria turned, her steps purposeful as she strode from the chamber. She didn't need to be told twice.
As she moved through the corridors of the Red Keep, the letter in her possession felt heavier than parchment had any right to be. It carried with it the weight of their alliance, the delicate balance of secrecy that kept Daenerys Targaryen hidden from those who would use her as a tool for conquest.
Daario Naharis had come to play his part in the game.
But he was not the only one who knew how to play.
—
The chamber was oppressive, thick with the scent of blood, incense, and the sharp tang of herbs. The flickering light of the candles cast distorted shadows over the grisly scene before Cersei. Her eyes, swollen and red from hours of weeping, focused with a burning intensity on the body of her son, Joffrey. His head, grotesquely severed and reattached by the Silent Sisters, rested upon his now cold, pale chest. The meticulous stitching across his neck seemed almost... clinical. Like a butcher working on meat.
Cersei's right hand, wrapped tightly in bandages, throbbed with the kind of pain that made her teeth grind. It was a physical pain that, in the face of this atrocity, seemed nothing more than a fleeting annoyance. She couldn't feel it. Not truly. Not when she was consumed by rage. Grief was too small a word for what burned inside her.
The Silent Sisters moved with an eerie, almost dispassionate efficiency. Their veils hid their faces, but the sharpness of their movements told Cersei everything she needed to know. They were used to death. Used to the dissection and reassembly of bodies. Used to removing the humanity from their work.
But this was her son. Her child. And they were treating him like a carcass to be reassembled, to be put back together like nothing more than a broken doll.
Her breath quickened as she approached the table, her heels clicking sharply against the cold stone floor. She could hear the soft, rhythmic sound of the needle slipping through flesh, a sound that made her stomach turn.
"Stop," she hissed.
The Sisters didn't even flinch. They moved in their silent, ghostly manner, continuing their grim task as if she had not spoken.
No. She would not stand for this.
"Stop!" Cersei repeated, her voice rising, snapping like a whip in the thick silence. Her voice cracked with a sudden, gut-wrenching sob. "You... You are desecrating my son. You are treating him like a corpse. He's not some piece of meat to be stitched back together!"
One of the Silent Sisters, an older woman with hands like bone, looked at her through the veil, her eyes empty and cold, but her mouth remained sealed in the way only these women could manage. The needle slid through Joffrey's flesh again, and Cersei felt her heart lurch.
Her hands trembled as she balled them into fists, nails digging into her palms. Her face contorted, raw and furious. The grief was there, yes, but the rage—the rage tore at her insides like fire. This was no longer just about mourning her son. It was about vengeance. She would see them all burn for this.
Without warning, she snapped. "Do you hear me? Stop!" She advanced toward the Sisters, her voice thick with venom and barely restrained fury. "You will stop this madness at once!"
They continued their work.
Her breath came in angry, shallow gasps. Her blood boiled, and she found herself trembling with an urge to hurt, to lash out, to make them feel it. She reached forward, grabbing one of the veiled Sisters by the wrist.
"Are you deaf, woman?!" she snarled, her voice breaking. "Do you think I care for your sterile rituals? This is my child, you vile wretches! Do you not understand? My son is dead!"
One of the Sisters, silent as always, gently removed Cersei's hand from her arm, her face never betraying a shred of emotion. Cersei's eyes widened, fury surging. She grabbed at the nearest implement on the table—a sharp scalpel—and raised it above her head.
But just before she could strike, the door creaked open.
"Your Grace," came the voice of Pycelle, his hands trembling slightly as he shuffled into the room, his ancient face scrunched into the usual bumbling expression of feigned concern. "I... I was told you were in here, and I thought perhaps, if I might be of some assistance...?"
Cersei froze, lowering the scalpel slowly as she turned to face him, eyes blazing.
"Pycelle," she said, her voice dripping with disdain, "what is it that you think you can assist with?" She stepped forward, her heels clicking louder with each movement. "Do you think you can make this… this grotesque display any better?" Her voice softened, a mocking sweetness entering her tone. "Perhaps you'd like to stitch my son together yourself. It seems you have a fondness for pretending to be useful."
Pycelle's watery eyes darted nervously. "Ah, Your Grace," he stammered, wringing his hands. "I—Well, I'm no stranger to the… ah… delicate work of reanimating the deceased. Not, of course, that your son is—no, no. But the Sisters, the Sisters, they do not always—" He stopped short, his eyes flicking nervously to the table.
Cersei's lips curled into a cruel smile. "You speak in riddles, old man. But it doesn't matter. You are nothing but a puppet to them, aren't you?" She waved her hand dismissively. "A puppet to the Tyrells, a puppet to everyone who has ever dared to whisper your name."
Pycelle shifted uncomfortably, his frail hands clutching at his robes. "I only seek to help. To serve, Your Grace," he muttered, his voice full of the practiced sweetness he had perfected over years of living beneath the shadow of power. "I would never want to be… of any inconvenience…"
"An inconvenience?" Cersei's voice was low and dangerous, each word deliberately spoken. She took a step closer to him, watching the old man shrink back, his eyes filled with both fear and confusion. "You are more than an inconvenience, Pycelle. You are a burden. You have done nothing but stand by as they have all taken from me. You stood by while they killed my son!" Her voice trembled with venom.
The old man recoiled, his face a mask of confusion. "Your Grace, I—"
"Shut up." Her command sliced through the air like a sword. "Do not speak. You have no words that could make this better."
She turned back to Joffrey's body, her eyes narrowed as she stared down at his twisted form. The silent rage continued to boil inside her. "You will all pay," she whispered to herself, her hands shaking with barely contained fury. "Every last one of you."
The Silent Sisters had finished their work, and the body was now swathed in a thick shroud. Cersei stood there, staring down at her son, unable to tear her eyes away from the cold, lifeless face that had once been her pride.
"Littlefinger." She spat the name with the full weight of her loathing. "That vile snake. He will not die quickly, no. No… I will see him suffer in ways no man has ever imagined. He will feel my wrath before he dies."
Pycelle, still hovering nervously by the door, coughed lightly to gain her attention. "Ah, Your Grace, it is... perhaps time to—"
She spun on him. "Leave. Now."
Pycelle blinked, clearly confused, but did not argue. He scurried from the room, muttering under his breath, leaving Cersei alone with the only thing that mattered now—her rage, her sorrow, and the unyielding need for vengeance.
She turned, her heels clicking sharply against the stone. There was no turning back now. The game had shifted, and she would no longer be the pawn. The storm inside her had become a storm of vengeance, and the world would burn before she allowed anyone to take from her again.
"My sweet boy," she whispered, her voice soft, yet filled with the kind of resolve that could shatter mountains. "You are gone. But I will make them pay."
And with that, she left the room
---
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