Cersei IV

The Martells had been in the capital for two days, and Cersei was making every effort to seize each moment with her daughter, despite the chasm of time and distance that had stretched between them. Each moment felt heavy, laden with unspoken questions and the tension of their fractured relationship. As she stood beside Myrcella, Cersei couldn't help but feel as though she were meeting a stranger. The girl she had once known was no longer there, replaced by a young woman whose presence was a stark reminder of how much had changed—not just in her life, but in Cersei's as well.

Myrcella had barely been eleven when she left for Dorne, still a child in so many ways. But now, standing before Cersei at the age of eighteen, Myrcella was the picture of maturity and grace. She held herself with the poise of a true princess, her posture straight, her demeanor calm, yet there was a warmth in her eyes that Cersei found both comforting and strange. She looked so much like Cersei had at her age—beautiful, poised, and confident—but with a richer complexion, the golden sun of Dorne having kissed her skin and deepened it to a warm olive tone. Myrcella was a product of both Cersei's blood and the sun-drenched lands that had shaped her.

As they sat together in the quiet corner of the royal gardens, the scent of blooming flowers filling the air, Myrcella spoke of Dorne, her voice soft but filled with genuine affection. "Sunspear feels like home now," she said, a faraway look in her eyes as if she were transported to the warm, fragrant streets of her adopted city. "It's a place of light and heat—so different from King's Landing." Her gaze flickered briefly to the towering walls of the Red Keep in the distance, but she didn't seem to linger on the thought. Dorne, it seemed, had fully claimed her as its own.

She told Cersei how Trystane, ever attentive, always made her feel cherished. "Every year, on my birthday, Trystane organises a ball in my honour," Myrcella continued, a soft smile curling on her lips. "He always gifts me something beautiful—a necklace with gems from Yronwood, a ring forged at Starfall. Something that reminds me of the place I now call home."

"During the hottest months of the year, we travel to the Water Gardens," Myrcella added, her voice filled with a sense of reverence for the beauty of Dorne. "It's so peaceful there. We spend days bathing in the cool, clear water, resting beneath the shade of the great palm trees. It's the closest thing to paradise I've ever known." Myrcella's eyes softened as she spoke of the tranquil escape, and Cersei could almost picture it—her daughter, so serene, a part of something greater than she ever could have imagined.

And yet, beneath the surface of these idyllic memories, there was something darker, something that hinted at the hardships Myrcella had endured. She hesitated, her voice faltering for a moment before she continued. "Elia's birth was difficult," she admitted, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of the table where they sat. "I struggled more than I expected... Trystane had to stay by my side, and when Elia finally came, I screamed for my mother, for you." The words felt like a quiet confession, a fragile moment where the veneer of royal composure slipped just slightly to reveal the vulnerability beneath.

Cersei's heart twisted at the words. For a brief, sharp instant, she imagined what it would have been like to be there, to comfort Myrcella, to hold her hand through the pain. But that thought was quickly replaced by another—the harsh reality that Myrcella had grown up without her. In Dorne, she had become a mother in her own right, creating new memories, living a new life. And Cersei, no matter how hard she tried, had not been a part of it.

There was a heavy silence between them, as Cersei processed the weight of her daughter's words. She could see the woman Myrcella had become—the strength and determination in her eyes—and for a moment, Cersei felt an unfamiliar sense of pride. And yet, beneath it all, a deep sorrow remained. Myrcella had grown into someone she barely recognized, someone Cersei could never have fully known.

"Elia is beautiful," Cersei said, her voice thick with emotion, trying to steady herself. "You are both so strong." The words came out more broken than she had intended, but she couldn't bring herself to say anything more. She reached for Myrcella's hand, gripping it gently, though it felt unfamiliar and strange in her grasp.

Myrcella's eyes softened in return, her gaze warm but tinged with something Cersei couldn't quite place. "Thank you, Mother," she said, the words not quite as natural as they should have been, but still genuine enough.

The garden around them seemed to quiet as the moments stretched on, the weight of unspoken words heavy between them. Cersei longed to reach across that distance, to reclaim some part of the bond they once shared, but she wasn't sure if she knew how. Instead, she found herself staring at her daughter, the woman before her, and felt the overwhelming complexity of everything they had lost—and perhaps, what they could never regain.

"Father," Cersei called, her voice calm but insistent as she stood in the middle of her father's study, the faint rustling of papers the only sound in the quiet room. The heavy oak door creaked behind her as she shifted her gaze, her sharp eyes scanning the tables scattered with maps and letters. The study was always an impressive sight, filled with the scent of old leather and ink, the walls lined with bookshelves crammed full of knowledge and strategy, the very tools Tywin Lannister used to rule with his iron grip. But today, the room felt strangely unwelcoming—filled with a tension she couldn't quite place.

Cersei's eyes skimmed over the papers laid out before her, maps of the North, and various battle plans scribbled in Tywin's precise handwriting. She knew they would be leaving for the North soon to deal with Stannis Baratheon and his forces. They had to finish this, to crush the Baratheon threat once and for all.

But something about the situation felt off. The preparations had been delayed, and Cersei had no idea why. There was no word from the North or the Lannister forces—only more plans and contingencies. As she scanned the papers before her, a few caught her attention. Letters from House Velaryon on Driftmark were strewn across the table, their wax seals still intact. The Velaryons had been loyal to House Targaryen for centuries, and though they had shifted allegiances since Robert's rebellion, they remained an influential family. But what was their interest in the conflict with Stannis?

And then, there were the maps of Dragonstone. Cersei's brow furrowed. Why were there so many detailed plans for Dragonstone—Stannis' stronghold, a place he had once loathed? She thought she knew all the strategies that had been devised for this campaign, and yet, these maps indicated a different direction. Was Stannis planning to return to Dragonstone? The very thought seemed odd. He had forsaken the island for years in his pursuit of the throne, after all. Why would he go back now?

Her questions remained unanswered, and the sense of unease in the pit of her stomach grew stronger with each passing second. Cersei stood for a moment longer, her fingers brushing over the edges of the maps as if seeking some clarity that seemed just beyond reach. But it wasn't until she heard the soft click of the door that she finally turned her attention away from the papers.

The doors to the study creaked open, and Tywin Lannister strode in, his commanding presence filling the room. Behind him was Jaime, his face a mask of calm indifference, though his eyes flicked to Cersei for a brief moment. Tywin didn't even acknowledge her presence, not in the way that would have been expected from a father to his daughter, but instead, he turned directly to the table, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene.

"Make yourself at home, daughter," Tywin said in his usual cool tone, but there was an underlying sharpness to his words. His gaze flicked briefly over the papers, noting their disarray as if it were an offense, and then returned to Cersei with a look of mild reprimand. His sharp eyes were always calculating, and in that moment, she could feel the weight of his disapproval. It was as though he had already deduced what she had done—he had seen through her.

Cersei squared her shoulders, her chin lifting imperceptibly as she met her father's piercing gaze. She would not let him intimidate her, not when the stakes were so personal. "I was simply looking over the plans," she said smoothly, her voice carefully devoid of irritation. "I came to speak with you about something. I want to go to Dorne when Myrcella and her party leave. Just for a few months."

Tywin's expression barely shifted, but the slight narrowing of his eyes spoke volumes. "You won't be going anywhere," he said, his tone clipped and authoritative, brooking no argument. "Not while we're preparing for the North."

Cersei's lips tightened, but before she could interject, he continued, his voice cold and measured as though explaining strategy to a child. "Margaery is about to enter her confinement, and Tommen will need his mother more than ever. The city will need you. Should there be unrest—or worse, an attack—you must be here to command loyalty and ensure the stability of the throne."

"That's why he has the Kingsguard," Cersei countered, her voice sharp with frustration. "And his council. Tommen is the King. He does not need me to hold his hand through every decision."

Tywin's jaw tightened, and his gaze grew more severe. "You misunderstand your role, Cersei. Tommen's strength as a King lies in the perception of unity, of stability within his family. Your absence would be noted, and tongues would wag. The King's mother abandoning the capital for a sojourn in Dorne would give the impression of disinterest—or worse, discord within the crown."

"I would hardly call it a sojourn," she snapped, unable to keep the edge from her tone. "Myrcella is my daughter. I haven't been part of her life for years. Her marriage, her child—all of it happened without me. I only want—"

"You want," Tywin interrupted, his voice like a whip crack. "You want. Always what you want. Have you forgotten your duty, Cersei? Myrcella has made her life in Dorne, a life you secured for her through marriage. Your wants do not outweigh the needs of the realm."

Cersei's nails dug into her palms, and for a moment, she struggled to keep her composure. "She screamed for me," she said finally, her voice quieter, laced with a rawness she could not hide. "When she was in labour, she screamed for her mother. And I wasn't there."

"That is the nature of parenthood—especially with daughters," Tywin said, his voice cold and pragmatic. "Did you imagine you could keep her at your side forever? Clinging to your skirts like some simpering babe?"

"She is my child," Cersei said, the words escaping her lips with venom, her eyes blazing with defiance. "Do you expect me to let her slip away completely? To watch her live her life as a stranger to me?"

Tywin took a deliberate step closer, his imposing presence pressing down on Cersei, though she refused to back away. "Your life ceased being your own the moment you stood before the septon and pledged yourself to Robert Baratheon," he said, his voice low and razor-sharp. "You were a queen, and now you are the King's Mother. Soon enough, you will be the King's Grandmother. Every moment, every action, every breath you take belongs to the crown. To the legacy of House Lannister. You are a piece on the board, Cersei, not the one moving it."

The words landed with a palpable weight, and for a moment, the room was silent, the tension thick as honey. Jaime, leaning against the doorframe, straightened. His usual air of indifference was replaced with unease as he watched the clash of wills between father and daughter. He rarely stepped into their battles—experience had taught him it was futile—but today, he hesitated. His gaze lingered on Cersei, a flicker of concern in his green eyes.

"Father," Jaime began, his tone unusually careful. "Perhaps—"

Tywin silenced Jaime with a single, withering glance that carried all the weight of his authority. Then, turning his attention back to Cersei, he fixed her with an inscrutable stare, as though evaluating her worth. After a moment, he abruptly turned away, his dismissal as cutting as the edge of a blade.

"If that's all, Cersei," he said coolly over his shoulder, "I have real matters to attend to. Matters that actually shape the future of this house."

"Such as?" Jaime interjected, his tone probing but cautious.

Tywin straightened, his movements precise, like a general preparing for battle. "Robb Stark has replied to my letter," he said. "He claims that his father and brother are innocent of any treason. That neither they nor House Stark support Stannis Baratheon's claim to the Iron Throne."

"So they'll join us?" Jaime asked, his brow furrowing.

Tywin's glare darkened, as though frustrated by the naivety of the question. "Lord Stark would have us believe that his father and brother are at the Wall to defend the realm against another threat entirely—White Walkers."

Cersei couldn't suppress her laughter, sharp and incredulous. "White Walkers?" she said, her tone dripping with mockery. "And are the Snarks and Grumpkins marching south as well? Have the Giants risen from their caves to join the fight?"

Tywin's expression remained as immovable as stone. "Robb Stark claims this threat is real and that neither he nor his allies will swear any allegiance until it is dealt with. He suggests we consider joining them, or risk the realm being overrun. The same proposal, he says, has been extended to Stannis."

Cersei's derisive scoff cut through the room. "Surely, we're not foolish enough to entertain such nonsense?" she said sharply. "It's a trap. Anyone with half a wit could see that."

"A trap for what?" Jaime asked, his voice laced with skepticism.

"Who knows?" Cersei snapped, throwing up her hands. "Get us all in the same room as Stannis and wipe us all off the map? Or perhaps the boy fancies himself a king now."

"No," Tywin said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. "Robb Stark may be many things—a green boy leading armies, sentimental like his father—but he has no interest in the Iron Throne, no more than Ned Stark ever did."

"Then why?" Cersei demanded, her frustration bubbling over. "Why are we wasting time on this charade?" Her eyes darted to the maps spread across the table—Driftmark, Dragonstone, the North. "What's really happening, Father? Why the delay?"

Tywin's sharp gaze settled on her, his jaw tightening. For a moment, the room was heavy with tension, as though the very walls were holding their breath. Finally, he spoke, each word deliberate.

"We are not delaying. We are preparing," he said. "Robb Stark's claims of White Walkers may be folly, but his movements are not. He has mobilised his forces and is drawning them northward. Stannis Baratheon remains at the Wall, consolidating his position. There is something happening in the North—something that goes beyond the usual squabbles of lords and crowns. I do not yet know what it is, but I will not march blindly into chaos."

Cersei narrowed her eyes, stepping closer to the table to study the maps. "Driftmark, Dragonstone," she muttered. "You think Stannis plans to move south again?"

Tywin's silence was answer enough. Jaime crossed his arms, glancing between them. "Then why the interest in Driftmark? Stannis doesn't hold it."

"Daenerys Targaryen has set sail from Meereen," Tywin announced, his voice as impassive as ever, though the weight of his words hung heavy in the air.

Cersei froze. There had always been whispers about the exiled Targaryen princess, but Cersei had dismissed them as the stuff of legends: tales of a silver-haired girl who walked unburned from fire, commanded an army of Unsullied and Dothraki savages, and raised three dragons to adolescence. They sounded more like bedtime stories meant to scare unruly children into submission than genuine threats to the Iron Throne.

"What?" she managed, lowering her goblet. "You can't be serious. The dragon princess—" her voice dripped with derision, "is finally leaving her dusty little city to what? Conquer Westeros? With what army? With what fleet?"

Tywin regarded her coolly, his expression a mask of measured patience, though there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Dragonstone has been abandoned since Stannis fled five years ago," he said, his tone clipped. "The most logical destination is there."

"Dragonstone?" Jaime leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "That's bold. She has no foothold in Westeros. No allies."

"She doesn't need a safe foothold," Tywin replied, his tone sharp and unyielding. "She needs a symbol, something that invokes the power and legitimacy of her claim. Dragonstone is not merely a castle; it is a monument to her family's legacy. It was the seat of her ancestors when they first set foot in Westeros, the place where the Targaryen conquest began. By landing there, she makes a statement to the entire realm: she is not some foreign upstart, but the true heir returning to reclaim what she believes is hers by blood and right."

Cersei scowled, her fingers tightening around her goblet. "And you think the lords of Westeros will flock to her because of a symbol? They're fools if they do."

"Fools or not," Tywin countered, his voice colder than the winter winds they were preparing to face in the North, "symbols matter. They rally men, inspire loyalty, and sow doubt in the hearts of our allies. If she secures Dragonstone, she has a base to solidify her position. And if she's as cunning as I suspect, she will already be turning people against us."

Jaime, who had been pacing near the window, stopped and turned toward their father. "You think that's why Robb Stark sent his letter," he said, his voice carrying a note of realisation. "You think the Starks have declared for her."

Cersei laughed, a sharp, dismissive sound. "The Starks, bending the knee to a Targaryen? That would be rich. They've hated her family for generations. They lost half their house because of the Mad King's madness."

Tywin's expression darkened, silencing her mirth. "Do not underestimate desperation, Cersei. The Stark boy knows his position is weak. If Stannis Baratheon falters and Daenerys takes Dragonstone, Robb may see her as the only viable means of securing the North's future. He doesn't need to love the Targaryens—only to see the opportunity in aligning with her."

Jaime frowned, his brow furrowing. "But his letter didn't mention her. It was all about these White Walkers and refusing allegiance until the threat is dealt with. Couldn't that be genuine?"

Tywin fixed his son with a withering glare. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it's a calculated delay. He knows Daenerys is coming and doesn't want to commit to a losing side too soon. If the Starks haven't already declared for her, they are certainly hedging their bets. If they unite with her, or even remain neutral long enough for her to gain momentum, we will have a war on multiple fronts."

Cersei shook her head, her frustration bubbling over. "So what do you propose, Father? We sit and wait for this dragon queen to land, for Robb Stark to make his move? Are we to act as pawns in everyone else's game while they scheme behind our backs?"

Tywin's gaze shifted to her, sharp and cutting. "No. We will act decisively, as we always do. The first step is ensuring that Daenerys Targaryen finds no allies here. The houses of the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Reach must remain firmly in Tommen's camp. And we need to deal with Stannis and the Northerns quickly."

"And what of her dragons?" Cersei asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "If they even exist, how do we fight those?"

Tywin's expression remained unmoved, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "Dragons are not invincible. They can be killed, just as they were in the past. But that will require strategy and preparation. If she brings them to Westeros, she will learn that fire and blood alone are not enough to win a war."

Cersei's lips pressed into a thin line. She hated how calm Tywin was in the face of such an unprecedented threat. Yet his words carried the same terrifying certainty they always did, a certainty that left no room for doubt or defiance. Still, a nagging thought lingered at the back of her mind: for all Tywin's careful planning, this Targaryen girl seemed to have the kind of luck—or madness—that defied even the most calculated strategies.

"So, we go North?" Jaime asked, leaning forward, his tone somewhere between eagerness and resignation.

"Yes," Tywin replied crisply. "We go North, and we deal with Stannis Baratheon once and for all. The Tyrell army has already arrived in the city, and with the Velaryon fleet under our command, we can transport the bulk of our forces north swiftly and discreetly."

Cersei frowned, her skepticism plain on her face. "The fleet? You intend to sail?"

"Yes," Tywin said, his tone brooking no argument. "We set sail at dawn. Our destination is Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. From there, we will march westward to Castle Black. The journey by foot will be arduous, but by the time we make landfall, it will be too late for Robb Stark to send reinforcements. We will cut off his resources to the Wall and cut down his allies in one decisive strike."

"And Stannis?" Cersei pressed. "Do you truly think he'll wait for us to attack? The man is stubborn, but he's not a fool."

"Stannis has no choice but to stand his ground," Tywin replied, his eyes gleaming with cold calculation. "His forces are entrenched in the North, and winter has already begun to take its toll. If he retreats now, he loses face and support. If he advances further south, he leaves himself exposed to our forces. Either way, we will crush him. The key is speed and precision."

"And after Stannis?" Jaime asked. "What then?"

"If all goes to plan, we will march directly to Winterfell," Tywin said. "Once Stannis is dealt with, the Stark boy will have a choice: bend the knee or suffer the same fate. Either way, the North will be brought back under control."

Cersei crossed her arms, her mind spinning with questions and doubts. "And what of Daenerys Targaryen? What of her dragons? You're spreading our forces thin, Father."

Tywin's expression hardened. "I am well aware of the risks, Cersei. But this campaign in the North is not optional. If we allow Stannis to gain traction or the Starks to solidify their power, it will only make Daenerys's eventual arrival more dangerous. The North must be subdued now. As for the dragons, I have my own plans in motion to deal with them. They all follow her, without her there is no threat, if she is dealt with their campaign is over."

Jaime, sensing the tension between his father and sister, shifted the conversation. "What about Tyrion?" he asked carefully. "He's at Winterfell, isn't he? With Sansa and their son?"

Tywin's mouth thinned into a hard line. "I no longer trust your brother's intentions," he said curtly. "He's too entangled with the Starks and their schemes. His loyalties are divided, and divided loyalties are a threat to this house. He poisons that boy, I've long thought Damon should be brought to the capitol to spend sometime with his family."

Jaime straightened, his voice firm but cautious. "Tyrion is a Lannister. He's proven his loyalty time and time again, even when we didn't deserve it. If you take his son from him, you cast him out forever"

Tywin's glare could have frozen wildfire. "Tyrion will have the opportunity to prove his loyalty one last time. When we reach Winterfell, he will decide whose side he is truly on. If he stands with us, he lives. If he stands against us…" His voice trailed off ominously, leaving no doubt as to the outcome.

Cersei's lips curled into a cold smirk. "If Tyrion has chosen to play the Stark's lapdog, let him suffer the consequences."

Jaime shot her a warning look, but she ignored him. Tywin turned to the table, brushing aside a map of Dragonstone to reveal a detailed chart of the North. "Enough of this. Prepare yourselves. By this time tomorrow, the Lannister army will be on its way to reclaim order in the North. And once we have secured it, no force in this world—Targaryen or otherwise—will be able to threaten our house."