The Encroaching Darkness (ASOIAF/GOT AU OC)

AN: I'm an avid long-time reader with sudden urges to write every so often. I haven't had the time to do so, unfortunately, so this is my first attempt at writing anything more complicated than a grocery shopping list.

While not going to deep, I would like to say that I've had this idea for a while now. I intend to take elements of both the show and the books, while introducing 2 OCs of my own. One to the west and one to the east.

As I said, I'm a novice as far as writing is concerned, so I'll need my senpai's, hopefully constructive, criticism and advice. I also hate grammatical errors and misspelled words like the plague; so please point them out wherever found.

Thank you.

Prologue

The Red Keep, King's Landing

She could scarcely believe it. No, she refused to believe it. How could this be possible? Jaime, her other half, defeated and captured by those filthy damned inhabitants of a miserable barren wasteland. Cersei replenished her goblet with more wine. She had initially dropped it in shock. Her sodden silk-of-gold gown was dripping with wasted Arbor gold but she didn't give any thought to it. Father would just bu- Father! If she was numb with this revelation, how in seven hells must he be feeling?

Cersei could easily imagine his unbridled rage. His prize child - the most handsome talented knight to have been birthed this century – captured by a smaller host of Northmen lead by a green boy. Cersei, despite herself, grinned viciously. Her father's rage was uncontainable, while yet still his greatest motivator. For all his talk of family and respect, she knew that pride was all he truly cared for. By taking his heir prisoner, the Starks had endangered his legacy. It was only a matter of time until her beloved Jaime's retrieval. Or their destruction.

If there ever was a man not to be crossed, it was Tywin of the House Lannister.

Now that the wine was fulfilling it's purpose, she felt much more calm. She realized that House Lannister still had the advantage. After all, the Starks wouldn't dare harm their most valuable hostage; certainly not while they believed she still held both their daughter's lives in the palm of her hand. She breathed a smooth, silent, sigh of relief.

A knock came at the door to her chambers. She frowned and called out to bid entry. Her handmaiden - Syri? No, Senelle – entered timorously.

"Well? What do you want?" Cersei questioned her impatiently. There were, after all, very few matters that concerned her at the moment and even fewer that required a servant's involvement.

"B-beg your pardon, your grace but the lords of the Small Council were wishing for your presence. They would like to hold a meeting. To discuss the war."

As fragile as she appeared, she was sturdier than she seemed, Cersei had to grant her that; she had only stuttered once. While she felt too lethargic to warrant the journey only to see the shrivelled toad, the bald fragrant eunuch, the self-satisfied jowls of the rodent and the sharp beard, sharper eyes of the mockingbird; she had a duty to perform.

She had to give the appearance of resolute power and resolve, lest these ambitious worms be given the notion that House Lannister was starting to crumble. In any case, the realm required ruling and who better than her?

"Very well. I shall make my way to the Small Council chambers. Hurry along and relay my message." Cersei got to her feet, sauntering leisurely toward her drawers in order to change out of her gown. Mid-way across her room, just as the girl was taking her hurried leave, she stopped and slowly turned her head. "Kindly take note, wench. None of those pretentious fools are lords. They are advisors to my son, your king, and myself. To be appointed or dismissed as I please. They are masters in name only. The only ones worthy of reverence in this city – on this continent - are myself." And then, almost as if an afterthought;

"And my son."

Cersei returned to her chambers, just as the great orb of liquid gold in the sky began it's steady trek westward, far angrier than she had left them.

First, her grotesque little brother returned, after spending a year away gallivanting through the seven kingdoms; as though nothing had happened. As though Jaime wasn't captured as result of a war he had caused. To rule Joffrey's realm – her realm – as Hand of the King. As Hand! What fit of madness could have possessed Father to decide that the misshapen mistake of their family was fit for such a role? Tyrion was many things; as drunken as he was well-read and as lustful as he was cunning but to rule required a presence that words alone could not fill.

Father scarcely said a two dozen words at a time while holding court during his period as Hand to Aerys. His stare alone spoke volumes. She had watched, listened, imitated and learned more from him than Jaime or Tyrion had ever done. How could not see that?

Then, to be brazenly reproached by that weasel, Baelish, was near more than she could take. Though she had ordered her guards to stand down, it would have been so easy – so satisfying – to cut his verbose throat. But she needed him. The eunuch's search for the missing Stark girl was evidently unfruitful and with Jaime's capture her location was of increasing importance. With his wealth, contacts and whores, he could perchance have more luck. If not well, at least he was being put to some use. More than could be said for Pycelle or Slynt.

One acted as though he was as old as the Citadel itself, while whoring more than most young men; the other was more preoccupied with eating as much fine food and purchasing as many as fine garments as would befit the Lord of Harrenhal - a most temporary position, she assured herself – than he was doing his duty, keeping the King's peace as Lord Commander of the City Watch. With the war to the north and Renly's vast approaching host to the south, not to mention Stannis's horde of ships to the east, the people of the King's Landing were more hungry and more unruly than ever.

Finally, as if the gods were mocking her vile day, her own son dared to slap her. Within the Great Hall, in plain view of half the unwashed labourers of the Red Keep. Her! His regent, his mother and the only person in this stinking dung-pile of a city that cared for him. Could he not see that he was simply giving all those beady watchful eyes more reasons to dare doubt their power? Was she doomed to be surrounded by flatterers, cowards, drunks and fools?

Wait. There was that person.

The one person she could rely on through these troubling times. The only person who had paid as much attention to Father as she had; if not more. The only person that she could trust.

Cersei gracefully swept through the arches of the gallery, deep in thought. Would he come if summoned? Of course he would, her inner voice claimed. She was his family. When family was at stake, none were as solid, as unshakeable and as powerful as House Lannister.

That night, as the sun set in Westerlands, Cersei's mind was set. A quill was up-taken, a letter of both plea and command was inscribed and sealed with her personal seal.

The Crouching Lioness.