Cersei V

In the month since the twins had been born, Cersei felt her life slipping further and further from her grasp. Their arrival had been heralded as a new era for House Baratheon, but for Cersei, it had been the final nail in the coffin that had slowly formed around her. She had been pushed into the shadowy confines of a role she detested—categorised now as a grandmother, no longer the fierce and commanding Queen who had once sat beside a powerful king. She wasn't the glittering jewel of King's Landing anymore, the woman who held court with a single raised eyebrow. Instead, she was a widow, sidelined and slowly being forgotten, watching helplessly as her son, the embodiment of Lannister power and beauty, doted on his wife and children.

She could no longer see her own reflection in Tommen. Once, he had come to her for guidance, for reassurance, for protection. She had been his rock, his fortress, his confidante. Now, that role had shifted to Margaery, with her radiant smile, her youthful glow, and her seemingly endless energy for playing the perfect queen and mother. Tommen no longer sought his mother's wisdom, nor her comfort. She wasn't his safe haven anymore, and the realisation stung more than she cared to admit.

Cersei had tried to fight the decay of her image. She'd commissioned lavish new gowns, each one more elaborate than the last, in Lannister crimson and gold. She'd summoned hairstylists from Essos, demanding intricate braids and coils, adorned with jewels that sparkled like wildfire. Yet no matter how much effort she poured into her appearance, it always seemed futile. Margaery still outshone her at every turn. Her skin was flawless, with a natural blush that made her look untouched by the hardships of the world. Her hair fell in perfect waves, needing no jewels or artifice to draw the eye. She was everything Cersei could no longer pretend to be.

Sometimes, late at night, Cersei allowed herself to wonder what her life might have been like if she'd accepted her father's will and married Willas Tyrell all those years ago. As Lady of Highgarden, she would have commanded a powerful seat in the Reach, surrounded by wealth, influence, and respect. She would have ruled as fiercely as Olenna, wielding power in a way she could never do now as a dowager queen. Instead, she was here, a widow clinging to the fading echoes of her once-lofty status, haunting the halls of a castle she no longer ruled.

The only glimmer of solace in her increasingly empty days came from the twins. She loved them as fiercely as she had her own children, with that same protective, consuming devotion. Late at night, when the nursery was quiet and Margaery had long retired to her own chambers, Cersei would slip inside and watch them sleep. Their small chests rose and fell in peaceful rhythm, their faces so perfect, untouched by the burdens of their heritage. In those moments, she felt a fragile thread of hope—a sense of purpose, however fleeting.

She imagined what their lives could be, the people they might grow into. But the thoughts often darkened. Margaery would raise them as Baratheons, of course. They wouldn't be Lannisters. They wouldn't bear the name, nor carry the lion's legacy as they should. They'd be raised under Robert's shadow, as if they owed their place in this world to him. The idea filled her with a cold fury. These children were hers, as much as Tommen's or Margaery's. They were the future of her bloodline, and she would not see them stripped of that.

Sometimes, in the quiet of the nursery, Cersei entertained wild thoughts. She pictured Jaime returning from the North, the two of them slipping away with the twins in the dead of night. They could take a ship east, far away from King's Landing and its suffocating politics, and raise the twins as they should have raised their own children. No Baratheons. No thrones. Just them, a family bound by blood and love. But as quickly as the thought came, it vanished. Cersei knew she could never run. She was the daughter of Tywin Lannister, forged in the fires of the Rock itself. She was not made for obscurity. She would rather burn the city to the ground than fade into irrelevance.

Cersei knew that today—the day of the twins' presentation to the city—was her final opportunity to reclaim her grip on the people, the crown, and, most importantly, Tommen. It had to be perfect. She had poured weeks of effort into crafting a celebration that would be etched into history, a display of Lannister power and glory. Ornate carriages pulled by the finest white horses had been commissioned. Bespoke outfits for the royal family, in shades of crimson and gold, had been designed to reflect the might of House Lannister. There would be firebreathers, jugglers, and musicians performing at every turn, their costumes adorned with golden lion headpieces. A grand feasts was to be held in the keep, with wagons of wine brought directly from the Rock to remind the people of the wealth and splendour of their rulers.

Yet, at every step, her vision had been chipped away, whittled down by the ever-scheming Queen Margaery. Cersei had barely contained her rage when she learned that the carefully designed outfits for the royal family had been altered. Instead of red and gold, Margaery had ordered garments in black and yellow—the colours of House Baratheon. Her firebreathers, intended to wear lion headpieces to honour the Lannister legacy, now donned stag antlers. Even the wine from Casterly Rock, a reminder of Lannister superiority, had been rejected in favour of Arbor gold, the pride of the Tyrells.

Every change felt like a slight, a deliberate undermining of her authority. This was supposed to be a day for her family—her house—and yet Margaery, with her doe-eyed smiles and insipid charm, had made it all about her own.

Cersei had tried to push back, but Tommen had sided with Margaery every time. "She's just trying to honour father's memory," he had said when Cersei had protested the black and yellow garments "We are House Baratheon after all". "The people love the Arbor's wine," he had added when she raged about the shipments from the Rock being refused.

Robert's memory. Cersei nearly laughed aloud at the thought. The stag whose crown she had taken, whose children she had replaced with her own golden lions. The people might have adored him once, but his true legacy—the one that mattered—was Tommen, the last of her sons. And now even Tommen was slipping from her grasp, bewitched by Margaery's pretty words and softer touch.

Cersei's hands clenched into fists at her sides as she paced the Great Hall that morning. The day had not yet begun, but already she could feel the control slipping further away. This was supposed to be her triumph, her chance to remind the city who truly held power, but Margaery's influence had turned it into a farce—a parade for her children, her legacy.

Still, Cersei refused to surrender. If today was her last chance to reclaim what she had lost, then she would seize it with both hands. No matter what Margaery had planned, no matter what insipid gestures the Tyrell girl had woven into the day's events, Cersei would ensure that the people remembered this as a celebration of House Lannister. She would remind them, and everyone, of her strength. Of her power.

And, gods willing, she would remind Tommen that his heart—and his loyalty—belonged to his mother, not to his wife.

Cersei stood in the Red Keep's courtyard, the cool morning air brushing against her skin. She had spared no expense on her appearance today. Her gown was a masterpiece of Lannister craftsmanship, a deep crimson silk embroidered with golden lions that shimmered with every movement. The neckline was modest but commanding, adorned with a necklace of rubies that caught the sunlight like drops of blood. The dress had been tailored to perfection, designed to remind everyone of her standing as the matriarch of House Lannister. This, at least, was one area where Margaery could not challenge her. Cersei was a Lannister, after all, and no one would dare deny her the right to wear her house's colours.

She stood tall, her eyes fixed on the steps of the Great Keep as Tommen and Margaery emerged. The young King and Queen were the picture of blissful perfection, each holding one of their infant children swaddled in golden blankets embroidered with the Baratheon sigil. The ornate fabric glittered in the sunlight, a deliberate display of wealth and power. They descended the steps with an air of practised grace, Tommen glancing at his wife with a soft, boyish smile while Margaery beamed at the crowd beyond the gates.

Cersei felt her stomach churn as she watched them climb into the front carriage of the parade. The couple looked every inch the loving parents, the perfect royal family, but to Cersei, it was all a carefully orchestrated performance—a ploy to keep the people's hearts firmly in Margaery's grasp. The sight of her son so enamoured with his wife, so utterly enthralled by her, was almost too much to bear. That should have been her place, sitting beside Tommen, guiding him, holding their family together. Instead, she was relegated to the second carriage, forced to share it with those she despised.

She lingered in the courtyard, her expression schooled into an icy mask as she awaited her unwanted companions. With Jaime and her father in the North, Myrcella and her daughter returned to Dorne, and Joffrey long dead, there was no family left to accompany her. She was surrounded by strangers in her own home, and today was no exception. Her thoughts were briefly interrupted as she spotted Olenna Tyrell approaching, her stride steady despite her advanced years. The Queen of Thorns was followed by her son, Mace, his ridiculous feathered hat bobbing as he walked, and his wife, Alerie, who wore her usual placid smile.

Cersei's lips thinned as they drew closer. She would have preferred even Tyrion's company to this ordeal. At least with Tyrion, there was the satisfaction of matching wits, the fire of shared venom. With Olenna, there was only the sting of her sharp tongue, cutting deeper than most swords. And as for Mace and Alerie… Cersei suppressed a sneer. Mace was a blustering fool, a man so desperate to prove himself that he often tripped over his own words. Alerie, on the other hand, was maddeningly unremarkable, a woman with no fire, no ambition. Cersei couldn't decide which was worse: enduring Olenna's barbs or the dullness of her son and daughter-in-law.

Still, she straightened her shoulders, her spine as rigid as steel, and greeted them with a tight-lipped smile as they approached. "Lady Olenna," she said coolly, inclining her head ever so slightly.

"Lady Cersei," Olenna replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "What a vision you are. I've heard of your father's injuries in the North, I join you in wishing him a quick recovery and return to form."

Cersei's smile froze. "And you look as sharp as ever, Lady Olenna," she said, her tone as sweet as honey but with a hint of malice. "My father is strong, his injuries are merely a minor inconvenience."

Olenna smirked, clearly unimpressed, before gesturing toward the carriage. "Shall we? I wouldn't want to keep the people waiting."

With a curt nod, Cersei stepped toward the carriage, her skirts swishing against the cobblestones. The Tyrells followed, and as the doors closed behind them, Cersei braced herself for the journey ahead. The parade would be long, and the company unbearable, but she would endure it.

As the procession wound its way through the streets of King's Landing, the grandeur was undeniable. A parade of at least ten carriages stretched along the cobbled streets, each one gleaming in the sunlight and flanked by rows of soldiers. The Lannister garrison led the way, their ornate display armour polished to perfection, the lions of their sigils roaring on their crimson and gold surcoats. At the rear, more soldiers rode on horseback, their banners fluttering in the breeze. The clatter of hooves, the rhythmic pounding of boots, and the distant murmur of the crowd all combined into a steady, almost hypnotic hum.

Cersei sat back in her carriage, the finest in the procession save for the royal one ahead of her. The seats were upholstered in rich velvet, the curtains thick with golden embroidery, and the lion of Lannister emblazoned proudly on the doors. She allowed herself a rare moment of satisfaction as she envisioned the sight they must present to the city. This was power, this was dominance, and this was the true legacy of House Lannister. She imagined the people craning their necks to catch a glimpse, marvelling at the strength and wealth of their rulers. This parade was more than just a celebration of the twins; it was a declaration of Lannister supremacy.

When she returned to Tommen's side—truly returned, not as an ornament but as his guide, his protector, his Queen Mother—this would be the norm. No one would dare question their right to rule. The Lion of Lannister would roar once again, drowning out any whispers of dragons or rebellion.

Yet as her gaze flickered to the streets beyond the carriage window, her satisfaction wavered. The faces of the smallfolk lining the streets were a stark contrast to the splendour of the parade. They were gaunt and sallow, their eyes hollowed by exhaustion and hunger. Children clung to their mothers, their ragged clothes barely protecting them from the chill in the air. Few smiled or cheered as the carriages passed. Most simply stared, their expressions a mixture of apathy and bitterness.

Cersei's lips pressed into a thin line as she turned her head away from the window. The sight of them soured her mood. Ungrateful wretches, she thought. She had given them everything—order, protection, the strength of her house—and yet they looked at her with dull, resentful eyes. Did they not understand the cost of greatness? Her father's war in the North, though necessary, had drained the city of its able-bodied men, leaving behind the weak and the useless. The new taxes, imposed to fund the crown's efforts, had been met with complaints and riots. The whispers of discontent had grown louder, no matter how many times the Kingsguard had been sent to silence them.

She had overheard Loras Tyrell once speaking to Tommen about the disturbances in Flea Bottom, how the Kingsguard were breaking up brawls and uprisings almost daily. It was no surprise to Cersei; the smallfolk had always been little better than animals, needing to be herded and controlled. Their struggles were their own fault, a result of their laziness and lack of foresight.

And now, the spectre of Daenerys Targaryen loomed over the city. Her arrival at Dragonstone had reignited the dormant loyalties of fools who longed for the return of the dragon's tyranny. Cersei had always known that King's Landing, despite Robert's best efforts to stamp out every trace of Targaryen rule, had never truly forgotten its former masters. She had felt it in the way the people spoke of the dragons as myths, as if they were creatures of awe rather than destruction. She had seen it in the way they whispered stories of the old Targaryen kings, as if they had been noble rather than mad.

The very thought of Daenerys made Cersei's blood boil. That upstart girl, claiming to be a queen, had no idea of the sacrifices it took to hold a throne. She had not endured the years of manipulation, the careful games, the battles waged not with swords but with words. If the people truly believed that Daenerys would save them, they were more foolish than Cersei had ever imagined.

The smallfolk were insignificant, blind to the truth. If they wanted to turn their backs on the strength and stability of the Lannisters and chase after the illusion of the Targaryens, then they deserved to suffer. Cersei's mouth curled into a sneer as she stared straight ahead, her mind steeling itself against the growing tide of discontent. She would remind them of what true power looked like. Today was only the beginning.

The courtyard of the Great Sept awaited, and with it, her final chance to cement her place in this city, in this family. Cersei Lannister was not done yet. The people might have forgotten what it meant to fear the lion, but she would remind them soon enough.

As they arrived at the Great Sept of Baelor, the procession of carriages came to a halt one by one. Footmen rushed to open the doors, and the occupants stepped out onto the grand stone square, their footsteps echoing faintly against the silence of the crowd. Cersei descended from her carriage, the folds of her crimson and gold gown sweeping behind her, her expression composed but her mind racing.

The crowd was vast—far larger than she had anticipated. They stretched far beyond the immediate square, spilling into the surrounding streets like a surging tide. Larger than Joffrey or Tommen's coronations, larger than any royal wedding, even her own, and certainly larger than the funerals of Robert or Joffrey. Yet, despite their numbers, the mood was oppressively solemn.

Cersei scanned the faces in the crowd, hoping to find some flicker of joy, pride, or even awe. Instead, she was met with dull, sunken eyes and grim expressions. The smallfolk stood shoulder to shoulder in their rags, some clutching children to their sides, others shifting restlessly as if the mere effort of standing for so long was too much for their frail bodies. The air was thick with the occasional cough, a shuffling of feet, and the murmur of restless whispers.

Ahead of her, Tommen and Margaery were already ascending the steps to the Sept, each holding one of the twins. The High Septon stood at the top of the steps, flanked by septas and septons, his arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome. Tommen and Margaery reached him and offered polite bows, presenting the children as the High Septon gave his blessings.

Then, as was now their custom, Tommen and Margaery turned to face the crowd. The King and Queen raised their hands, waving at the gathered masses, the golden fabric of their garments catching the light. It was a move Margaery had perfected in the early days of her engagement to Joffrey, a calculated gesture designed to connect with the people. But today, it had none of the desired effect.

The silence that followed was deafening. The crowd remained unmoved, their faces blank and unresponsive. There was no cheer, no applause, no cries of adoration for the royal family. The only sounds were the occasional coughs, the shuffling of weary feet, and the indistinct hum of a city on the brink.

Cersei's brow furrowed as a chill ran through her. This was not the reception she had expected, not the reception the Lannisters deserved.

"What on earth is happening?" came Mace Tyrell's voice, puffing as he struggled to climb out of the carriage behind her, his face red with exertion. His bejewelled doublet strained against his girth as he adjusted himself.

"Let's just get inside," Olenna snapped, brushing past him with an urgency that was unusual for her. Her sharp eyes darted across the crowd, taking in the tension in the air. She clearly understood, as Cersei did, that this was not just indifference—it was a warning.

Cersei said nothing, but she felt the weight of Olenna's unspoken conclusion settle heavily in her chest. The people were not here to celebrate. They had come for something else entirely.

As she followed the Tyrells towards the steps, Cersei's mind churned. This was supposed to have been her moment—a grand display of Lannister power, a reclaiming of the city's loyalty. Yet, instead of cheers, the silence of the crowd felt like an accusation. Her sharp gaze flickered to Margaery, who was now smiling for the High Septon as if everything was as it should be. This is your fault, Cersei thought bitterly. Margaery's endless efforts to ingratiate herself with the people had only made their expectations impossible to meet. And now, with the city starving and Daenerys Targaryen looming on the horizon, the smallfolk had grown restless.

As they neared the entrance to the Sept, Cersei glanced back over her shoulder at the crowd one last time. She spotted a woman clutching a child, the boy's face thin and gaunt, his eyes wide with a mixture of hunger and fear. Beside them, a man stood leaning on a crude crutch, his leg wrapped in filthy bandages. The sight made her sneer. The people were weak, ungrateful for the stability the Lannisters had given them.

As the sept began to fill with the nobility of King's Landing, their whispered conversations and the shuffling of their ornate robes reverberated faintly off the towering stone walls. Cersei took her place in the pews near the front, forcing herself to maintain her composure, but her thoughts were elsewhere. No matter how hard she tried to focus on the ceremony unfolding before her, her mind remained on the people outside—the silent, watchful crowd that had come not to celebrate but to bear witness.

Her surroundings only added to her growing irritation. To her left, Mace Tyrell sat in his ostentatious doublet and his ridiculous plumed hat that swayed with every exaggerated movement he made. To her right was Melara Caswell, whose garish green-and-gold dress seemed to consume half the bench, leaving Cersei pressed uncomfortably between the two. She didn't even bother to grimace or remark on the indignity of it; her thoughts were too preoccupied.

The High Septon began to speak, his voice echoing through the vast Sept of Baelor, a solemn and rehearsed cadence that did nothing to calm her nerves. He stepped forward and extended his arms to Margaery, who gracefully handed over the princess swaddled in her golden blanket.

"With humble hearts, on this day, we welcome Princess Argella of House Baratheon into our hearts and into the light of the Seven," the High Septon intoned. His voice rose to fill the chamber as he moved through the ceremonial blessings. "May she live a just life, led by the Father. May she have strength gifted by the Smith. May she be brave and forever protected by the Warrior. May she have beauty instilled by the Maiden. May she know the mercy and peace of the Mother. May she have wisdom passed down by the Crone. And when her time comes and her days are done, let her go with the Stranger as a friend."

The princess was handed back to Margaery, who accepted her with a radiant smile that seemed designed to dazzle the onlookers. Cersei watched the exchange with cool disdain, though her mind barely registered it. Her attention was pulled toward the faint murmur of noise filtering in from outside.

At first, it was little more than a low hum, a faint disturbance she might have dismissed as the restless shuffle of the crowd gathered beyond the Sept's doors. But as the High Septon turned to Tommen and extended his arms for the young prince, the noise grew louder, more distinct.

Cersei's ears strained to make out the words. Then, suddenly, she caught them.

"Whore."

"Traitor."

"Bastard."

The words cut through the sacred air of the Sept like knives. Cersei's spine stiffened, and her hand tightened on the armrest of the pew.

The High Septon, seemingly unaware, continued his solemn duties. He took Orys from Tommen's arms, holding the boy aloft as he began the same blessings he had just bestowed upon his sister.

"With humble hearts, on this day, we welcome Prince Orys of House Baratheon, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, into our hearts and into the light of the Seven..."

The words faded into the background for Cersei as the shouting outside grew louder, the accusations more vehement. The chants of "Whore!" and "Traitor!" rose in unison, mingling with the murmurs of discontent. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the High Septon could hear it too, or if the pious fool was too caught up in his rehearsed sanctimony to notice the chaos brewing just beyond the Sept's gilded doors.

Her eyes flicked to Margaery, who was holding the princess and smiling serenely as if she hadn't noticed the noise. But Cersei could see the slight tension in her posture, the way her grip on the child had tightened just a fraction. You hear it too, Cersei thought bitterly, and you know this is your fault as much as anyone's.

A quick glance at Tommen revealed the boy-king looking nervous and confused, his wide eyes darting toward the doors as though he were unsure whether to acknowledge the disturbance or ignore it. Cersei's heart clenched. He was too soft for this, too naive to realise that this was not just discontent but danger, a storm brewing that could sweep them all away.

Her gaze returned to the High Septon, still obliviously reciting blessings over the prince, and she fought the urge to rise from her seat and demand he speed up the ceremony. Every moment they lingered here, exposed and vulnerable, the crowd outside grew angrier, bolder.

Cersei's mind raced. Why now? Why today? The answers came unbidden, cruelly logical in their simplicity. The city was starving. The war had drained its resources, and the people had been pushed to their limits. And now, Daenerys Targaryen had landed at Dragonstone, a new queen with dragons and promises of liberation. The people wanted change, and they were willing to believe that the woman with fire and blood in her veins could give it to them.

And here she was, sitting in the Sept, surrounded by sycophants and traitors, powerless to stop the tide that was turning against her family. For the first time in years, Cersei felt a flicker of fear. Not for herself, but for Tommen. For her grandchildren. For her legacy.

The shouting outside continued, growing louder, more insistent. It was only a matter of time before it reached a breaking point. And Cersei knew, deep in her bones, that the city would not be so easily placated this time.

As the ceremony drew to a close, the High Septon pronounced his final blessings, and the crowd within the Sept rose from their seats. The sound of murmured conversations and rustling silk filled the air as guests began to disperse, gravitating towards familiar faces. Cersei remained seated for a moment, her eyes fixed on Tommen and Margaery at the centre of the gathering.

The Tyrells wasted no time surrounding them. Margaery's brothers, Willas and Garlan, flanked the King and Queen, their wives joined them, smiling and laughing with an ease that grated against Cersei's nerves. Then came Margaery's nephew, who earned a warm laugh from the King with some jest Cersei could not hear.

The sight was unbearable. Tommen looked so... happy, a radiant smile lighting up his boyish features as he basked in the attention of Margaery's family. They made it all seem so effortless, their unity and charm, their tight-knit bonds. Cersei's jaw clenched. In another world, this would not have been her son's reality.

She allowed herself, briefly, to imagine that alternate world. Tommen would have married someone else, someone quiet and docile. A placid girl from a noble family—one who would speak only when spoken to and would never think to challenge her authority. In that world, her eldest son, Joffrey, would still be King, ruling with all the fire and fury that Robert had lacked. Perhaps he would even have a child of his own by now, a child Cersei could mould as she had moulded him.

Her daughter, sweet Myrcella, would not be in Dorne, a land that had stolen her away and left Cersei powerless to bring her home. No, in that world, her family would be whole again, as it was meant to be. But that was not her reality. Joffrey was dead, his young life snuffed out before he could even wear the crown properly. Myrcella had returned to Dorne, the realm of snakes. And here, in the Sept of Baelor, Tommen smiled at the Tyrells, his affections slipping further and further from her grasp.

The bitterness of it all curdled in her chest as she forced herself to rise from her seat. She adjusted her crimson gown and began to move towards her son, determined to draw his attention away from his wife's insufferable family. But before she could take more than a few steps, a guard in Lannister colours approached her, leaning in to whisper urgently in her ear.

"We should return to the Keep quickly, Your Grace. The crowds are becoming harder to control."

Cersei's heart skipped a beat. She glanced at the grand doors of the Sept, as though she could hear the distant shouts and murmurs beyond them even now. The ceremony had dulled the sound somewhat, but the unrest outside was far from over. If anything, it seemed to have grown louder, more volatile.

She nodded, forcing her face into an expression of calm authority. "Of course," she said, her voice low and steady. She could not let the Tyrells see her rattled. "Make the preparations."

The guard saluted and stepped away, leaving her to approach Tommen. She moved swiftly but deliberately, her skirts brushing the marble floor with each step.

"Tommen," she said, her tone brisk but gentle as she reached him. Her son turned to her, his smile faltering slightly at the look on her face. "We must return to the Keep immediately."

"But—" Tommen began, his gaze flickering to Margaery, who looked equally confused.

"There's been a change in plans," Cersei continued, cutting him off before he could argue. "The parade will have to be postponed. The crowds outside are becoming unruly, and it would be unwise to linger here any longer."

She didn't wait for his response, instead turning to Margaery. "We'll proceed back to the Keep at once."

Margaery hesitated, glancing at her brothers and then back at Cersei. "Is it truly so urgent?" she asked, her voice as sweet as honey but edged with scepticism.

"It is," Cersei snapped, her patience wearing thin. "If you wish to keep your husband and children safe, you'll do as I say."

Margaery's lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. She turned to one of her guards and gave the necessary instructions, her usual composure intact despite the tension in the air.

As the Tyrells moved to organise themselves, Cersei allowed herself a moment to breathe. The plan had been to walk back to the Red Keep in a grand procession, led by the High Septon himself, so that the city could marvel at the new prince and princess. But now, that plan was in ruins. They would retreat quickly and quietly, slipping through the streets under heavy guard.

The tension was palpable as they stepped out into the open air, the heat of the sun stark against the chill of fear that crept down Cersei's spine. At the base of the grand marble steps, the royal carriage waited, its door open and its gold embellishments gleaming as if mocking the grim reality of the moment. The soldiers surrounding it stood at attention, their spears raised in a defensive formation. All they had to do was descend those steps and get inside, and they would be safe—at least for now.

But the crowd was different now. The subdued faces they had passed earlier, hollow-eyed and thin from starvation, had transformed into something far more dangerous. Angry shouts reverberated through the air, a cacophony of rage and despair. Cersei strained to make sense of the words, her heart sinking as fragments reached her ears.

"Lannister bastard!"

"You were meant to keep us safe!"

"Lying bitch!"

And then came the chant that froze her blood, the one she had feared above all else.

"Long live Queen Daenerys!"

Cersei's breath caught, her hands clenching at the folds of her dress. Her gaze darted to Tommen, standing just ahead of her. The boy—no, the King—turned his wide eyes to her, and in that moment, he was no longer the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. He was just a frightened child, looking to his mother for comfort, for answers.

She wanted to scream at him to move, to stop standing there like a deer caught in a hunter's snare. But she couldn't. No one could. The group had frozen in place, paralysed by the noise, by the hostility that radiated from the masses pressing against the barriers.

It was Loras who broke the silence. Clad in his gleaming Kingsguard armour, he stepped forward with a commanding presence, his voice steady and resolute. "Your Grace," he said, addressing Tommen with a calm authority that belied the chaos around them. "You need to take the Princess and go with your mother in the first carriage."

He turned to Margaery, his expression softening only slightly. "Sister, you take the Prince and go with Mother and Father in the second carriage."

"No," Tommen said, his voice trembling but defiant. "I don't want to be apart."

Loras's jaw tightened, but his tone remained patient. "If anything should happen, Your Grace, you and the Prince cannot be together. He is your heir. If the worst comes to pass…" He trailed off, letting the unspoken words hang in the air like a shadow. "I'll go with them," he added, his hand resting firmly on Tommen's shoulder. "And I swear to you, I will keep them safe. As your brother, I give you my word."

Tommen hesitated, his young face contorting with emotion. He glanced at Margaery, who gave him a small, encouraging nod, though her own fear was evident in her eyes. Finally, he nodded, his shoulders sagging in reluctant acceptance.

Carefully, he handed the swaddled Prince Orys to Margaery and took his daughter, Princess Argella, into his arms. He looked down at the tiny face nestled against his chest, his expression softening for a moment before he lifted his gaze back to his wife.

"I love you," he said, his voice low but filled with determination. He leaned forward, kissing her with a fierceness that seemed to surprise her. "I'll see you soon," he added, his words a promise and a plea all at once.

Margaery nodded, her composure faltering only slightly as she turned away, cradling Orys.

Loras gestured for Tommen to follow, and the young King descended the steps with his daughter in his arms, his movements stiff with unease. Cersei hesitated for only a moment, her eyes meeting Margaery's. There was no need for words between them; the distrust, the resentment, and the unspoken fear were plain enough. Without another glance, Cersei moved quickly to follow her son.

As they reached the carriage, the shouts from the crowd seemed to grow louder, more frenzied. Cersei could feel their anger like a physical force pressing against her, threatening to suffocate her. She glanced back towards the Sept, where Margaery was being ushered into the second carriage with her parents and the Prince.

The soldiers closed ranks around them, their polished armour gleaming in the sunlight, but even their presence felt inadequate against the tide of unrest. Cersei climbed into the carriage behind Tommen, her mind racing.

This was no longer about the twins, the parade, or even the chants for Daenerys. This was about survival. The people of King's Landing, once cowed into submission by the might of House Lannister, were now defiant, their desperation morphing into fury. Their silence had given way to something far more dangerous—a collective rage that surged like wildfire through the crowd.

As the carriage lurched forward, the first rock struck the side with a dull thud. Then another, and another. The impact sent vibrations through the ornate structure, and Cersei could hear the clattering of more objects—pots, stones, even what sounded like shards of broken tiles—raining down on the gilded surface. She flinched at a particularly loud crash against the roof, her nails digging into the plush seat beneath her.

The city guard stationed at the door reached to pull it closed, but before he could turn away, Cersei caught his arm in a vice-like grip. "No matter what happens," she hissed, her voice sharp and cutting through the noise outside, "this carriage must get back to the Red Keep."

The guard nodded, though his expression betrayed a flicker of irritation at what he likely perceived as an obvious command. But Cersei didn't release him. Her fingers tightened, her nails pressing into the leather of his gauntlet. "You must do everything in your power to ensure it," she repeated, her words deliberate and heavy with menace. "Cut them all down if needs be."

The guard hesitated, his jaw clenching as he processed the weight of her words. His gaze flickered to the chaos outside, where the crowd pressed closer, their shouts and cries rising into a deafening roar. For a moment, it seemed as though he might protest.

"All of them," Cersei said again, her voice low but unyielding. Her eyes burned into his, leaving no room for doubt, no space for mercy.

Finally, he nodded, his face hardening into a mask of grim determination. She let go of his arm, and he turned back towards the crowd, drawing his sword as the carriage jolted into motion.

Inside, Tommen sat stiffly, his face pale and drawn, his wide eyes darting between the windows as though he expected the crowd to tear through at any moment. His arms clutched Princess Argella so tightly to his chest that Cersei feared for a moment he might harm her.

"Did Margaery and Orys get into their carriage?" he asked, his voice trembling with fear. His knuckles were white, his grip on the babe as desperate as his tone.

"I didn't see, my love," Cersei said smoothly, her voice calm despite the chaos around them. "But I'm sure they are safe." She extended her arms toward him. "Give me the Princess and try to breathe."

Tommen hesitated, his reluctance plain, but he obeyed. Carefully, he handed the child over, his hands shaking as he did. Cersei cradled the infant against her chest, her movements steady and deliberate, a stark contrast to the panic radiating from her son.

The Princess was silent, her tiny face serene despite the uproar outside. Cersei looked down into the child's wide, unblinking eyes, and for a moment, the world around her seemed to fade into the background. There was something in those eyes, something that stirred a fierce, almost primal emotion in her chest.

This child was not Margaery's. Not truly. She was Cersei's.

The thought struck her with the force of a revelation, even as she knew it was impossible. But the feeling persisted, irrational and undeniable. Argella had none of Margaery's softness, none of her delicate, airy beauty. No, the girl was strong, unyielding, with a quiet intensity in her gaze that mirrored Cersei's own.

She stroked the babe's cheek with her thumb, her lips curling into a small, bitter smile. Margaery might believe she had won, might revel in her position as Queen and mother to the future of the realm. But in this moment, with the child nestled against her, Cersei felt a surge of possessiveness, a sense of purpose she hadn't felt in years.

"Shhh," she murmured, more to herself than to the child, as another stone struck the side of the carriage. "You'll be safe with me."

Tommen shifted beside her, his hands wringing nervously in his lap. "What if they—what if the crowd—"

"They won't," Cersei interrupted, her tone firm. "You're the King, Tommen. They'll know better than to harm you."

But even as she said it, she could feel the lie on her tongue. The people outside didn't see a King in Tommen. They saw a boy, a Lannister boy, a symbol of their suffering. And for the first time, Cersei realised how fragile their hold on the throne truly was.

As they made their way through the winding streets of King's Landing, Cersei stared out the carriage window, her expression carefully blank even as her mind raced. The chaos outside was unimaginable. The smallfolk screamed and fought, hurling themselves at the city guards and soldiers with reckless abandon. Some turned on each other in their desperation, fists flying and weapons flashing in the dim light. Smoke curled into the air as a building they passed erupted into flames, the fire crackling and devouring everything in its path. It was a city unravelling at the seams.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the carriage passed through the heavy gates of the Red Keep. Relief flooded through Cersei as the courtyard loomed ahead, guarded and fortified. The instant the wheels stopped, the door was flung open, and they scrambled out. Cersei placed a firm hand on Tommen's back, guiding him towards the safety of the Keep's interior.

"Inside," she said sharply, her voice leaving no room for argument.

But Tommen stood his ground. "No," he said, his tone stronger than she'd expected, though his hands trembled at his sides. "I have to wait for them."

"It's not safe, Your Grace," one of the Kingsguard urged, his voice laced with urgency.

"You can wait inside," Cersei said again, this time softening her tone as she looked into her son's fearful eyes. "You'll be the first to know when they arrive."

Tommen hesitated, but before he could move, the gates creaked open again. Three carriages rolled into the courtyard in quick succession, their wheels rattling against the cobblestones. The sight filled the air with a tense mixture of anticipation and dread.

From the first carriage, Margaery stepped out, her face pale but determined, Orys clutched tightly in her arms. Her hair, always so perfectly arranged, was slightly dishevelled, and her gown was creased from the ordeal. The moment she saw Tommen, she ran to him, and he wrapped her in a fierce embrace. Tears welled in her eyes, but she kept her composure as she pressed her cheek to his.

Behind her, Mace and Alerie Tyrell emerged, their faces marked with the strain of panic. Alerie sobbed openly, her hands trembling as Mace awkwardly tried to console her, his usual pomposity replaced by uncharacteristic silence.

The second carriage opened next, and Olenna Tyrell stepped out with her usual air of command, though her expression was harder than usual, her lips pressed into a grim line. A cluster of Margaery's handmaidens followed her, their faces streaked with tears, their dresses rumpled and torn. They huddled together, clearly shaken, clutching one another like frightened children.

Cersei's focus lingered on Tommen and Margaery, who clung to each other as if nothing else existed, their whispered reassurances drowned out by the chaos around them. But the peace of that moment was shattered by a guttural, piercing scream. Alerie's cry filled the courtyard, wrenching Cersei's attention back to the final carriage.

She saw Garlan Tyrell first, his face ashen and his shoulders stooped as if he bore the weight of the world. In his arms, he held his young son, who was wailing uncontrollably, his small hands clutching at his father's neck. Leonette Tyrell followed close behind, her cheeks streaked with tears, her usually serene countenance shattered.

Cersei's breath caught as her eyes fell on what—or rather, who—was the cause of Alerie's shrieking. A Kingsguard emerged from behind the young family, bearing the limp form of Melara Caswell. Her once extravagant green-and-gold gown was soaked in blood, the fabric clinging to her as though painted with the carnage of the day. For one moment, Cersei thought she was dead. But then she saw the faintest flutter of Melara's eyelids, the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

"She's fine." Garlan said flatly, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. "She just fainted. It's not her blood."

His words were mechanical, as if he were merely reciting facts, his eyes fixed on something far away. He didn't pause as he moved past them, his son still crying in his arms. Leonette, however, froze, her sobs intensifying as she clutched at his arm.

"Wait," Margaery called, her voice trembling as she looked around wildly. "Where's Willas?" Her gaze darted to the carriages, searching desperately for her elder brother. "Where is he?"

Leonette broke down completely, her words tumbling out between gasping sobs. "We were getting into the carriage," she began, her voice raw with anguish. "Willas was getting in last. The crowd—they surged. They broke through the guards. They grabbed him. Someone kicked his leg, and he—he buckled. Melara tried to get to him, but someone had a knife and—" Her words dissolved into incoherence as she buried her face in her hands.

Margaery froze, her expression a mask of disbelief. "No," she whispered, shaking her head as though the act could undo the words she'd just heard. "No, that can't be—"

"He didn't make it," Garlan interrupted bluntly, his tone devoid of emotion as he turned back to face the group. "It's his blood." His eyes flickered briefly to Melara's stained dress before returning to the ground. Without another word, he walked passed them, disappearing into the Keep with his son still clinging to him.

The courtyard fell into a stunned silence, broken only by Alerie's sobs and the distant murmur of the city beyond the gates. Margaery sank into Tommen's arms, her body shaking as she wept softly against his chest.

Cersei stood apart from them all, clutching Argella to her chest. She watched the scene unfold with a cold detachment, her mind already calculating the implications of this tragedy. Willas Tyrell was dead. The Tyrell family, the foundation of Margaery's power, had just suffered a devastating blow.

And as much as Cersei despised Margaery, she couldn't deny the sinking feeling in her chest. This was not a victory. This was chaos, and chaos could not be controlled—not even by her.