Cersei III
Cersei woke before dawn, her usual routine keeping her restless thoughts company in the dark. Beside her, Jaime lay in peaceful slumber, his golden hair tousled, his breathing even. She knew she needed to wake him soon. Before long, one of her handmaidens would arrive with breakfast, and Jaime would have to return to his own chambers before anyone noticed his absence. But still, she hesitated. For a moment, she allowed herself the indulgence of watching him. So much had changed in the five years since Joffrey's death, yet Jaime remained her one constant, the only thing that hadn't slipped through her fingers like sand.
Her mind wandered to Tommen, the sweet boy who had once clung to her skirts and hung on her every word as though the sun itself rose and set with her command. When he had first taken the throne, he had listened to her above all others, even her father. She had reveled in it, believing that as long as Tommen needed her, she would retain her power.
But that golden age had ended the moment he became a man. Marriage had been the first crack in the illusion. As his relationship with Margaery deepened, Cersei could feel him pulling away. It began subtly—Tommen no longer broke his fast with her, choosing instead to dine with Margaery in the King's chambers. Then came the dinners with visiting dignitaries, where Margaery sat beside him, whispering in his ear, leaving no room for Cersei at the table. And finally, the inevitable: the day she was told to vacate the Queen's chambers.
Cersei had clung to those chambers like a lioness protecting her den, believing that as the Queen Mother, she was entitled to them. But the truth had been undeniable. Margaery, radiant and clever, had long since claimed the role of Queen in the hearts and minds of the court. Her father, Tywin, had been the one to deliver the news with his characteristic coldness. "Your station as Dowager Queen is honoured, but it does not entitle you to overreach your place," he had said, his voice devoid of sympathy.
The new chambers she had been assigned were smaller, tucked into a quieter wing of the Red Keep. The gilded grandeur of her former life had been stripped away, replaced with modest tapestries and a bed far too narrow for her tastes. Her father had been deliberate in his cruelty, reminding her that they were far more fitting of her diminished station. Most galling of all, the chambers were on the opposite side of the castle from Tommen and Margaery, a move she knew was orchestrated by the Queen herself.
In the years since, her power had slipped away piece by piece, like a slow bleed she couldn't stop. First, Tommen had reduced her household staff, claiming it was to trim excess spending. Then came the humiliation of her accounts being monitored—her father's doing, of course. When she had dared to challenge the limits placed on her spending, Tywin had dismissed her concerns with a patronising remark about wearing her gowns twice, as if she were a merchant's wife and not a lion of Casterly Rock.
But the final, devastating blow had come when Tommen announced Margaery's pregnancy. He had shared the news with a beaming smile, his joy unmistakable, while Cersei sat frozen in place. She had known the day would come—Margaery's ambition ensured it—but hearing it was like a blade twisting in her gut. The knowledge that her days as the most important woman in Tommen's life were over made her feel mortal in a way she never had before.
One day, Margaery would strip even the title of King's Mother from her, relegating her to a relic of a bygone era. She imagined herself cast off to Casterly Rock, where she would endure the insult of seeing Tyrion as its lord, or worse, left to rot in the capital, locked in some forgotten tower, her name fading from memory. She thought of the Targaryen queens of old, women like Daenaera Velaryon or Aelinor Penrose, whose names were little more than footnotes in history. Who remembers what became of them? she thought bitterly. One day, that will be me—a name whispered in passing, forgotten by time.
Her hand clenched the coverlet, her nails biting into the fabric. This was not how her story was supposed to end. She had clawed her way to power, endured humiliation and betrayal, all to ensure her children's place in the world. Yet here she was, slowly being eclipsed by a girl who had barely lived long enough to understand what power truly was.
"Cersei," Jaime murmured, stirring beside her. His voice was soft, groggy with sleep. She looked down at him, her stormy thoughts momentarily quieted. He was still here, her golden knight, her twin, her love. The only one who had ever truly been hers.
For now, at least, she still had him. But for how much longer? Cersei Lannister was a woman who had lost too much already, and the thought of losing Jaime—of losing everything—made her resolve harden like iron. She would not go quietly into obscurity.
"Wake up," Cersei snapped, her voice sharp and cold as winter steel. She shook Jaime's shoulder, harder this time, her patience already wearing thin. "Myrcella arrives today, and I will not be denied the opportunity to see my daughter for the first time in years because you couldn't be bothered to leave my bed before sunrise."
Jaime stirred groggily, blinking against the faint pre-dawn light filtering through the chamber's heavy curtains. "You're charming as always," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He stretched lazily, as though they had all the time in the world, and it made her blood boil.
"This isn't a game, Jaime," she hissed, stepping back and crossing her arms tightly across her chest. Her golden hair tumbled over her shoulders, her face taut with frustration. "Do you think I'll risk the whispers, the rumours, just so you can have a few more minutes of rest? If anyone saw you here, if anyone suspected—" She cut herself off, unable to finish the thought. The consequences didn't need to be spoken aloud; they loomed over them both like a shadow.
Jaime pushed himself upright, running a hand through his tousled hair, the smirk fading as he met her steely gaze. "No one will see me," he said, his tone softening. "I know the way, Cersei."
"That's not the point," she shot back, her voice low but no less fierce. "Myrcella arrives today, Jaime. My daughter. My only daughter. And I will not allow anything to overshadow her homecoming. Not whispers in the court, not your carelessness, nothing."
Her voice faltered for a moment, the weight of her words pressing down like a crushing tide. It had been years since she had last seen Myrcella—three long years since their visit to Dorne, a visit she now regretted with every fiber of her being. They had gone to witness her daughter marry Trystane Martell, a union solidified by necessity and politics following the death of Prince Doran and Trystane's sudden rise as the new Prince of Dorne.
Cersei had despised every second of her time in that sun-scorched land. The oppressive heat, the incessant chirping of insects, the cloying sweetness of Dornish wine—everything about it had grated on her nerves. She had spent most of her days longing to return to the familiar stone walls of the Red Keep, to the cool breezes of the Blackwater Bay, and to the politics of King's Landing where she thrived.
She hadn't appreciated the fleeting time she'd had with Myrcella during that visit. She hadn't savoured each precious moment as she watched her daughter step into womanhood, becoming a wife before her very eyes. Instead, she'd let herself be consumed by discomfort and irritation, resenting the Dornish traditions and the eyes that followed her every move as the infamous Dowager Queen. Now, she hated herself for that.
The Myrcella she had seen then was not the doe-eyed girl with chubby cheeks she had kissed goodbye when she was sent away years earlier. That Myrcella was gone. In her place stood a young woman—beautiful, radiant, and poised in a way that seemed almost foreign to Cersei. Myrcella had carried herself with a serenity Cersei could never manage, her every movement a testament to the life she had carved out for herself in Dorne. She had looked every inch a princess, a figure perfectly at home in the gilded, sun-drenched courts of Sunspear.
And now, Myrcella was coming home. Changed again. No longer simply a princess but a mother herself, returning to King's Landing not as the shy, obedient daughter Cersei had sent away but as a woman with a life and family of her own. Cersei's heart clenched painfully at the thought. What would Myrcella think of her now, after so many years apart? Did she even think of her at all? Did she tell her own daughter stories of her grandmother—the lioness of Lannister—or did Cersei's memory fade in her mind like a figure shrouded in mist?
Jaime swung his legs over the edge of the bed, watching her closely. He could see the cracks beneath her cold exterior, the tremor in her voice, the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes. He stood, closing the distance between them, his hand brushing against her arm. "You've missed her," he said simply.
Cersei stiffened at the touch, refusing to let herself soften. "Of course I have," she said, her voice sharp as ever. "She's my daughter."
"Then let today be hers," Jaime said softly, his voice steady but resolute. "Focus on Myrcella and her child. Don't let Margaery, the council, or even me distract you from what truly matters."
Cersei pulled away, turning her back to him. "Get dressed," she said curtly, her tone brooking no argument. "And go."
Jaime hesitated for a moment, then sighed and began to gather his clothes from where they were strewn across the floor. As he dressed, Cersei stood by the window, her arms still crossed tightly, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The first light of dawn was creeping into the sky, painting the Red Keep in muted golds and oranges. Somewhere out there, Myrcella was drawing closer, her ship cutting through the waves on its journey home.
Cersei closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. Jaime was right about one thing, today wasn't about him or her fears or the endless tightrope she walked in court. Today was about Myrcella. Her daughter was coming home, and she would not let anything—or anyone—ruin that moment.
Cersei entered the Great Hall with Jaime at her side, clad in his gleaming Kingsguard armor, and Qyburn trailing behind in his somber black robes. The sight before her was a painful reminder of how much the Red Keep had transformed over the years since Margaery Tyrell had ascended as queen. Gone were the cold, austere trappings of her rule; in their place, the hall radiated a soft, almost cloying warmth.
The banners of Tommen still dominated the room, bearing the sigil that merged the Lannister lion and the Baratheon stag. Yet now they were accompanied by others displaying the golden rose of House Tyrell, their vibrant green and gold weaving themselves into the fabric of the castle's identity. Elaborate floral arrangements lined the walls, fresh blooms perfuming the air. Queen Margaery had insisted on weekly deliveries from the city's finest florists, with an additional bounty of roses shipped directly from the Reach.
The lords and ladies of court had been effusive in their praise, murmuring about how much livelier and more welcoming the Red Keep had become under Margaery's touch. Cersei had smiled through clenched teeth each time, offering empty words of agreement, though in truth, each compliment felt like a dagger to her pride.
This castle wasn't meant to be warm. It wasn't a sanctuary for Margaery's schemes to take root and blossom like her precious flowers. The Red Keep was supposed to be a fortress, a cold, unyielding symbol of power and fear—a weapon against those who would threaten her family's hold on the Iron Throne.
Her gaze swept over the hall, lingering on the floral displays and the Tyrell banners, and she forced herself to straighten her spine. This was still her castle, her family's legacy. And no amount of roses could ever change that.
Tommen and Margaery stood side by side near the Iron Throne, the embodiment of a united crown. Margaery was resplendent in a golden gown, its intricate embroidery catching the light as it clung to her rounded belly. She rested one hand protectively over her swollen stomach, nearing her eighth month of pregnancy. The hall buzzed with anticipation, not only for the arrival of the Martells but also for the impending birth of the royal twins. This visit from the southern lords was to be the last public appearance Margaery would make before her confinement began. The risks were considerable—twins were always a delicate matter—and King Tommen, with Tywin's guidance, had insisted on assembling the best medical maesters from Highgarden to ensure her safety when the time came.
Tommen himself was dressed in a green doublet with fine golden embroidery, the shade a subtle nod to his wife's house. He seemed to favour green more and more these days, Cersei noticed, as if aligning himself further with Margaery and the Tyrells with every stitch of his attire. She felt a sharp pang of loss as she watched him, a bittersweet cocktail of pride and resentment bubbling within her.
It wasn't that she didn't love her son—she did, fiercely. But it pained her to see him this way, growing into a man she barely recognised. Where Joffrey had been a lion of Lannister through and through, with his sharp features and temper that mirrored Jaime's, Tommen was different. People often remarked on how much he resembled Robert or Renly in his build and demeanor, save for the Lannister colouring of golden hair and emerald eyes. The comparisons stung, no matter how impossible they were.
He lacked Joffrey's fire, his raw, unrelenting force of will. Instead, Tommen was calm, thoughtful, and altogether too malleable, bending to Margaery's influence with little resistance. Cersei could see it in the way he looked at her—deferential, doting, like a boy still eager to please his mother but now with his heart and mind firmly under his wife's control.
As she approached, flanked by Jaime and Qyburn, she studied the couple. Margaery leaned in slightly toward Tommen, whispering something that made him smile—a soft, easy smile that brought a faint flush to his cheeks. Cersei's jaw tightened imperceptibly. That smile should have been hers to inspire, that comfort hers to give. Yet here she was, the Dowager Queen, watching from a distance as her son grew further away with every passing day.
"Your Grace," Cersei said with a carefully neutral tone, dipping her head slightly to her son and his queen. She hesitated, her gaze lingering just a moment too long on Margaery's rounded stomach.
"Mother," Tommen greeted warmly, his boyish enthusiasm still intact despite his growing responsibilities. "Queen Margaery suggested you stand with us to greet Lord and Lady Martell."
Cersei's lips curved into a small, forced smile. "How kind of the Queen," she said, the edge in her voice so subtle that only Jaime, standing close by, might have detected it.
"Of course," Margaery replied with her usual poise, inclining her head graciously. Her hand drifted to her belly, stroking the curve of it in a gesture that seemed almost rehearsed. "Now that I am to be a mother myself, I couldn't imagine being separated from my children. The Princess Myrcella is your daughter as much as she is the King's sister. It is only right that you should be here to welcome her home."
Cersei's fingers tightened slightly on the fabric of her gown, though her expression betrayed nothing. Margaery's words were honeyed, a picture of generosity and grace, but Cersei recognised the undertone, the implicit reminder of who now held sway in Tommen's court. It was always like this with Margaery: her kindness was a tool, a subtle blade designed to cut without leaving a mark.
"You are most thoughtful, Your Grace," Cersei replied smoothly. Her gaze flicked to Tommen, his boyish face alight with gratitude toward his wife, and her chest tightened. "It will be a joy to see Myrcella again after so long."
"Indeed," Margaery said, her tone bright. "I'm told she has flourished in Dorne, a true Princess of Sunspear."
Jaime, ever the quiet observer, broke the tension with a casual remark. "I'm sure Myrcella will be glad to see all of us together. Family is everything to her."
Tommen nodded eagerly. "She's written as much. Myrcella speaks highly of Dorne and Trystane, but she's missed us—especially you, Mother." He gave Cersei a bright smile, one that momentarily softened the ache in her heart. "This will be good for her."
The herald's voice rang out through the Great Hall, crisp and commanding as it echoed against the vaulted ceilings. "Presenting Their Graces, Prince Trystane Martell and Princess Myrcella of Dorne, and their esteemed party."
Every gaze turned toward the towering great doors, which groaned open with slow, deliberate grandeur. The Dornish entourage entered, their arrival as striking as the sun rising over the desert sands. Myrcella led the way, her head held high, a picture of poise and elegance. She wore a flowing gown of golden-yellow and crimson, the colours of House Martell, its fabric shimmering faintly in the light of the torches lining the hall.
Her golden hair, now kissed by the sun and braided in the Dornish style, framed her face, which bore a soft but determined smile. At her side, Trystane walked with effortless grace, his hand resting lightly on her elbow in a subtle yet unmistakable display of unity. His own attire was just as regal—his tunic was adorned with the blazing sun and spear of his house, and a finely wrought cape of red and gold draped across his shoulders.
Behind them, Ellaria Sand followed, her expression unreadable but her presence commanding as always. In her arms, she cradled a tiny bundle swaddled in rich fabrics of Martell crimson and orange. The babe—no older than six months—nestled peacefully against her chest, its small, delicate hand peeking out from the cloth. Cersei's sharp eyes caught the details that would have escaped others: the child's sun-kissed skin, so like that of the Martells, and the faint tufts of blonde hair poking out from beneath the swaddling.
The procession halted before the throne, and Myrcella's gaze swept across the room, her smile broadening as she saw her brother. She dipped into a practiced curtsy, her movements as fluid and graceful as the Dornish waves. "Your Grace," she said, her voice carrying across the hall with measured confidence. "It is good to be home."
Tommen stepped down from the dais, his face lighting up with a boyish grin. "Myrcella!" he exclaimed, his enthusiasm momentarily dispelling the heavy formality of the court. He embraced her tightly, and Myrcella laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine.
"Myrcella, you look wonderful," he said, stepping back to take her in. His gaze shifted to Trystane, and he extended a hand. "Prince Trystane, it's good to see you again. Thank you for taking care of my sister."
Trystane inclined his head respectfully as they shook hands. "Your Grace, it has been my greatest honour. Myrcella is the light of Dorne."
Cersei's stomach churned at the sentiment. The light of Dorne, not of her own family.
Ellaria took a measured step forward, her dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and defiance. She moved with the grace of a woman accustomed to being watched, her presence commanding attention despite the softness of the moment. With a gentle motion, she passed the child into Trystane's arms, her fingers lingering on the baby's tiny hand before pulling away.
"Your Grace," Trystane said, his voice steady but full of affection as he presented the infant to the throne. "May I present to you your niece, Princess Elia Martell, our daughter." The words hung in the air like a quiet declaration, heavy with meaning. He looked up, his eyes meeting Cersei's for a brief moment, before turning his gaze back to the infant in his arms.
Cersei's breath caught in her throat. The baby's soft features were unmistakably Dornish, a reflection of Trystane's bloodline. But there was something else too—a lingering echo of something more, something that made Cersei's stomach twist with unspoken emotion. Elia Martell. The name hit her like a weight in her chest, stirring long-buried memories, old wounds.
The child's namesake, Elia Martell, had been the beloved sister of Prince Oberyn, murdered at the hands of the Lannisters in the wake of Robert's Rebellion. That name, so familiar, carried with it a history Cersei knew all too well. The Martells had never forgotten their grievances, and the pain of that loss ran deep in the blood of Dorne. But it was more than just a name. Elia Martell had been a woman, a princess, a mother—and the woman who had been taken from the world too soon by Tywin's commands.
As Cersei looked upon the infant, her gaze fell upon Ellaria, who stood off to the side, her eyes not on the child or the King, but fixed squarely on Tywin. The older man, regal as always, stood silently in the gallery, his expression unreadable as he observed the scene unfolding before him. But Cersei knew that beneath that calm façade, something was stirring. Ellaria's stare was deliberate, her defiance sharp and undeniable.
Tommen's smile was wide, his eyes gleaming with genuine warmth as he leaned forward, studying the small, sleeping form in Trystane's arms. "She's beautiful," he said, his voice filled with a childlike delight. He reached out a hand to gently touch the baby's tiny fingers, his expression softening as if the weight of the moment had momentarily swept away the responsibilities of kingship. "You've done so well, Myrcella. Father would be so proud."
The mention of Robert struck Cersei like a dagger, piercing the fragile calm she had worked so hard to maintain. Her body stiffened, her breath catching as her mind spiraled. She turned her gaze away from Tommen, her eyes flicking between Myrcella and the child, trying to steady herself. Would Robert have been proud?
In her darker moments, when the bitterness of her past with Robert consumed her thoughts, she often wondered if the version of him she held in her mind—the brutal, uncaring man who had never once loved her, who had never been the king she had hoped for—was the true Robert. Had he truly been proud of Myrcella? Would Robert have been pleased to see Myrcella married to a highborn lord, living a life of status and respect? Would he have been proud to see her as a mother, surrounded by the trappings of the life Cersei had so desperately wanted for her children? Or would he have still seen her as a pawn, a prize in a game that had long since moved beyond her?
Shaking herself from her thoughts, Cersei forced her breath to steady, and with deliberate, controlled movements, she stepped forward. She approached Trystane, who stood holding the child so gently it was as if he feared she might vanish if he touched her too firmly. He caught her eye, a silent question in his gaze. Myrcella, standing beside him, offered a subtle nod of approval, her expression soft yet knowing.
Without hesitation, Trystane carefully passed the infant to Cersei's waiting arms. The child was light, so small in her hands, and for a moment, Cersei almost forgot where she was, who she was. She gazed down at the baby, the child of the Martells, of her daughter's union.
Her fingers brushed against the child's soft skin, the delicate tufts of blond hair peeking out from the swaddling cloth. This is my granddaughter, she thought. The silence in the hall deepened, a strange hush falling over the room. Cersei held the child close to her chest, her heart thudding in her ears. She could feel the eyes of the others on her—the Martells, the courtiers, even Tommen, whose gaze was now focused on her with a quiet intensity. The child's presence in her arms was almost too much to bear. She had never thought she would be here, holding the infant of her own flesh and blood, yet knowing full well that the child would always belong to Dorne.
"She's…" Cersei paused, her voice catching. She forced a smile, though it felt brittle. "She's perfect."
"She has her mother's calm demeanor," Trystane said with a small chuckle, "but her father's fire. A true Martell."
Cersei's grip on the child tightened ever so slightly. A true Martell. The words twisted like a dagger in her heart. Myrcella had become one of them—a Dornish Princess, raising a child who would likely know more of Sunspear's halls than the Red Keep. A child who, despite the golden locks, might grow up to feel like a stranger to the Lannisters altogether.
"Mother?" Myrcella's voice broke through Cersei's spiraling thoughts.
Cersei looked down at the tiny princess in her arms for a moment longer, feeling a strange surge of pride swell in her chest, as though the child's very presence confirmed some long-awaited legacy of her own. But she couldn't allow herself to linger in that fleeting emotion for too long. She looked up, and the coldness she had always carried beneath her regal demeanor settled back into place. Her expression smoothed, softening just enough to give the appearance of warmth as she returned the baby to Myrcella. "She will do House Martell proud," Cersei said, her voice steady. "And House Lannister."
Myrcella's smile flickered for a heartbeat, the barest hesitation in her eyes before the practiced mask of composure returned. She nodded in agreement, but there was something in her gaze that suggested the weight of those words was heavier than Cersei realised. "Of course," Myrcella replied, her voice almost a whisper, as if the effort of agreeing with her mother had taken more out of her than she would admit.
Tommen, ever eager to please and make his mark, placed a hand gently on Margaery's rounded belly, his eyes sparkling with youthful enthusiasm. "Maybe in a few years, you could give her a brother," he said, the words tumbling out almost too quickly. "An heir for Dorne, and then maybe Elia could find a throne of her own. Maybe with one of her cousins." His smile was infectious, his gaze shifting to Margaery, and everyone present could feel the implication hanging thick in the air.
Even Cersei, who often dismissed superstition, couldn't ignore the hint of discomfort that stirred in her gut. A Martell named Elia, married to the heir to the Iron Throne? Surely it would be unwise to tempt the gods with such an opportunity to repeat such a tragic tale from their history. She suppressed the thought, not wanting to show any sign of unease, but there was something about Tommen's youthful innocence in his ambitions that unsettled her.
Before she could voice her thoughts, Trystane Martell's voice cut through the moment, sharp and assured. "Elia is my heir," he said, his tone brooking no argument. He took a step forward, his posture straight and proud. "In Dorne, we believe women make as good rulers as men. I could have a hundred sons, and Elia will still take my place as the ruler of Dorne when the time comes."
Trystane's gaze lingered on her, his expression calm, almost challenging. "Surely you see what fine rulers women make, Your Grace," he continued, his voice steady, almost thoughtful. "Surrounded by your wife, your sister, and your mother—three of the strongest women in Westeros, so I hear."
Tommen's expression shifted from youthful enthusiasm to a flicker of confusion, his brows furrowing as he tried to process Trystane's words. "I apologise, my lord," he said, his voice soft and uncertain, a hint of embarrassment colouring his tone. "I meant no offense." His hand instinctively sought Margaery's, as if to steady himself, to regain the ease he had so often relied upon when surrounded by the comforts of his court and his Queen's reassuring presence.
But Margaery, ever poised, stepped in before the tension could thicken, her voice smooth and steady. "What my husband means to say," she began, turning towards Trystane with an understanding smile, her hand resting delicately on Tommen's arm, "is that the Princess Elia will be a great ruler, whether that is on her own or with someone by her side." Her tone was measured and diplomatic, carefully crafted to smooth over any potential ruffled feathers, both among the Martells and her own family.
Her gaze softened as she looked at Tommen, her fingers gently brushing against his sleeve. "It's a difficult thing to navigate—power and tradition, the expectations of a kingdom." She paused, her gaze sweeping briefly over Cersei before settling back on Trystane. "But in the end, it is the strength of the ruler, not how they came to the throne, that defines their reign."
Tommen, looking somewhat relieved by Margaery's graceful intervention, nodded slowly, his gaze drifting towards the baby in Trystane's arms. "Yes, of course," he added quickly, as if wanting to put the matter behind him. "I can see that Elia will be a wise and strong ruler." His voice regained some of its usual warmth as he spoke, but Cersei could tell he was still uneasy from the exchange. It was rare for him to find himself in such uncomfortable territory, but with Margaery's calming influence, he was quick to find his footing again.
Margaery gave a slight smile, her eyes briefly meeting Cersei's with a look that could almost be described as knowing. There was something subtly disarming in the way Margaery navigated these delicate moments, turning what could have been a point of contention into a quiet reaffirmation of her authority. A quiet reminder that she was the Queen, and in matters of court, it was her diplomacy that would guide the ship.
"Indeed," Trystane replied, his tone returning to its customary warmth, though there was a quiet sharpness behind his words, as if he was keenly aware of the precariousness of the conversation. "In Dorne, we know well that a ruler's true strength lies not in their title, but in the choices they make and the legacy they create." He glanced at Elia, who was still nestled in her arms, eyes fluttering softly. "And I have no doubt that Elia will carry the weight of her ancestors with grace and strength, as they would expect."
Cersei's eyes lingered on the little princess, still so small and delicate, her future resting on the winds of change. She wondered, not for the first time, whether the Martells truly understood the weight of what they professed. But then again, perhaps it was the Lannisters who had failed to grasp the shifting tides of power—the winds that were beginning to blow from the sands of Dorne. For now, she kept her thoughts to herself, offering only a faint, fleeting smile.
This, after all, was not the time for public confrontation.