Chapter 81 - The Lion's Fall

Daenerys

The wooden cage sat in a clearing a little removed from the main encampment, surrounded by four Stark guards who stood at attention. It was a crude structure, made of hastily lashed-together logs reinforced with iron bands—more animal pen than prison, which Daenerys suspected was precisely the point. The once-mighty Robert Baratheon, Usurper and slayer of dragons, reduced to a beast in a menagerie.

Daenerys approached slowly followed by Ser Oswell Whent and four Dornish soldiers, her crimson-and-black skirts sweeping the dusty ground. The guards straightened at her approach.

"Your Grace," the captain said, dipping his head. "Lord Stark said you might come. Shall we stay?"

"Leave us," Daenerys commanded, her voice soft but allowing no argument. "But remain within earshot. I doubt the Usurper can harm me through those bars, but should he try..."

"We'll gut him where he sits," the guard finished, his Northern accent making the threat sound almost casual. "Just call out, Your Grace."

They withdrew to a respectful distance, and Daenerys turned her attention to the cage. At first glance, it appeared empty save for straw scattered across the dirt floor. Then she spotted him—a massive shape slumped against the far wall, half-hidden in shadow.

"Have you come to gawk at the fallen stag, Dragon Queen?" Robert's voice was a deep rumble, hoarse from disuse or drink—perhaps both. "Or do you Targaryens like to savor your revenge slowly?"

Daenerys stepped closer, allowing herself a better view. Robert Baratheon was still a large man, though his legendary strength had long since gone to fat. His black beard was shot through with gray and crusted with what might have been wine or dried blood. Heavy iron manacles circled his wrists, connected by chains to a bolt driven deep into the ground. His blue eyes, however, were sharp and clear as they met hers with defiance.

"I came to look upon the man who destroyed my family," Daenerys replied, finding her voice steadier than she'd expected. "The man who smiled when my brother's wife and children were presented wrapped in Lannister crimson."

Robert shifted, chains clinking as he leaned forward. His face was bruised, one eye swollen half-shut—evidence of his capture had not been without resistance.

"Aye, I celebrated Rhaegar's death," he admitted, showing surprisingly white teeth through his matted beard. "I crushed his chest until rubies scattered in the Trident. I'd do it again in a heartbeat." He spat on the straw beside him. "But the children..." Something shifted in his expression, a flash of what might have been regret. "That was Tywin's gift. Unasked for, unwanted."

"Yet you draped yourself in the glory of their murders all the same," Daenerys challenged, stepping closer still. "You sat on my family's throne while babies' blood was still wet on the stones."

Robert's laugh was bitter, ending in a wet cough that shook his massive frame. "Is that what they told you in exile? That I danced on children's graves?" He shook his head. "I wasn't even in the bloody city when Tywin's dogs did their work. By the time I arrived, the dead were wrapped and the throne was waiting." He leaned back against the wooden bars. "A mistake not to have Lorch and Clegane killed, I'll grant you that. Should've taken their heads the moment I saw those bundles."

Daenerys felt a flicker of confusion. This wasn't the gloating monster she'd been prepared to face. "And my good-sister, Elia? Did you mourn her too, between cups of wine at your coronation feast?"

"I didn't know the woman," Robert replied with a shrug that made his chains rattle. "Dornish princess. Sickly, they said." His gaze traveled over Daenerys, lingering on her face. "You look like her, you know."

"Like Elia?" Daenerys asked, startled.

"No," Robert shook his head. "Your mother. Queen Rhaella."

The name of her mother—who had died birthing her—from the Usurper's lips sent an unexpected jolt through Daenerys. "You knew my mother?"

Robert shifted again, seeming to find a more comfortable position against the rough wood. "Not really. Exchanged words once or twice at the Tourney of Harrenhall, formal occasions. She was..." he paused, seeming to search for the right word, "...quiet. Sad-eyed. Always looked like she was carrying the weight of that mad husband of hers."

Daenerys found herself speechless. After a lifetime of cobbling together scraps of information about her mother from Viserys's increasingly unreliable memories and Ser Barristan's respectful but distant recollections, even this meager offering from Robert Baratheon felt strangely significant.

"She had your look," Robert continued, apparently taking her silence as invitation. "That silver-gold hair, those strange purple eyes. But never your fire. Aerys burned that out of her long before I ever raised my hammer against your house."

Anger flared in Daenerys again, hot and sudden. "You have no right to speak of her. You, who sent assassins after her children, who would have murdered me in my cradle if you could have reached me."

At this, Robert's brow furrowed. "Cut-throats? I never sent one."

"Liar!" Daenerys took a step forward, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "Viserys and I ran from city to city across the Free Cities because of your knives. We called ourselves the Beggar King and Queen because of you."

Robert barked a laugh. "Is that what your brother told you? Seven hells, he must be as mad as his father." He shifted again, leaning forward, the chains taut between his wrists. "I wanted you dead, aye. Made no secret of it in council. 'Kill the dragonspawn,' I said. But Jon Arryn talked me down each time." His blue eyes, still fierce despite his captivity, held hers. "Said it would dishonor me to murder children. Said a king shouldn't fear babes across the sea."

"You expect me to believe you spared us out of mercy?" Daenerys asked incredulously.

"Mercy?" Robert snorted. "No. Laziness, more like. It was easier to drink and hunt and fuck than to argue with Jon about assassins." He shrugged. "Maybe someone else sent knives after you—Varys, perhaps, or one of the other small council vipers. But it wasn't on my order."

Daenerys studied him, searching for the lie in his face. She found only bitter resignation and faded rage. "You're telling the truth," she said, surprise evident in her voice.

"Believe what you want," Robert replied. "I've never been much for lying. Ask Ned—sorry state of affairs when your enemy knows you better than your allies." He stretched, the chains limiting his movement. "I'd have killed you if you'd landed in Westeros during my reign. Would have sent armies, not cut-throats. But I never bothered with you across the sea."

Daenerys stood silently, processing this revelation. For years, the specter of Robert's assassins had defined her childhood—the reason for midnight flights from rented houses, for Viserys's increasing paranoia, for the constant fear. To have that certainty questioned now was destabilizing.

"If not you, then who?" she finally asked, more to herself than to him.

"Could be anyone with coin and motive," Robert replied, scratching his beard with manacled hands. "The Spider always played his own game, but he has been gone for two years now. Or maybe your brother just needed someone to blame for his failures." He fixed her with those blue eyes again. "You've got dragons and armies. I'm chained in a cage waiting for your nephew to decide how I die. Does it really matter anymore who sent knives that never found their mark?"

In that moment, Daenerys saw Robert Baratheon clearly—not the demon of her childhood nightmares nor the glorious warrior of the songs, but a man broken by his own appetites and the throne he'd never truly wanted.

"Perhaps not," she conceded. "But truth matters, even now."

"Truth," Robert echoed, settling back against the cage wall. "There's precious little of that in the game of thrones, Dragon Queen. But if it's truth you want, here's one: I never wanted that ugly iron chair. I wanted Lyanna Stark and vengeance for her. The crown was just... aftermath."

"Yet you took it."

"Aye, I took it. Someone had to." He gestured around his cage with manacled hands. "And look what good it did me."

A silence fell between them, filled only by the distant sounds of the camp and the occasional clink of Robert's chains as he shifted position.

"Your nephew plans to kill me, I expect," Robert finally said, his tone matter-of-fact.

"Justice for my family demands it," Daenerys replied.

Robert nodded, seeming unsurprised. "Tell him I'd prefer the sword to fire. A clean death is all a man can ask for in the end."

"I'll tell him," Daenerys said, preparing to leave.

"And girl," Robert called as she turned away, causing her to look back. "Your mother—she had a gentle laugh. Rare as summer snow, but it was there. You should know that much about her, at least."

Daenerys stared at him for a long moment, absorbing this unexpected gift from the most unlikely source. She gave him a single nod of acknowledgment before turning and walking away, her mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts.

The guards fell in behind her as she left, and she could feel Robert's eyes on her back until she rounded a bend in the path.

Jaehaerys

The morning sun cast long shadows across the sprawling encampment that surrounded King's Landing like a noose. Jaehaerys Targaryen stood atop a small rise, his indigo tunic rippling in the breeze as he surveyed the fruits of his conquest—thousands of tents spread in concentric rings around the city, banners snapping in the wind. The speared sun of Dorne fluttered alongside the direwolf of Stark and the leaping trout of Tully.

"Quite the view, isn't it?" Oberyn Martell's voice cut through Jaehaerys's thoughts as the Dornish prince approached, his orange silks bright against the dull greens and browns of the war camp. "Twenty thousand spears from Dorne, fifteen thousand wolves from the North, twelve thousand fish from the Riverlands—all circling one very frightened lioness."

Jaehaerys's lips quirked into a half-smile. "And how many vipers, Uncle?"

"Just one," Oberyn replied, twirling his spear absently. "But I count for at least a hundred men—in battle and in bed." He winked, the lines around his eyes crinkling with mischief.

"I don't doubt it," Jaehaerys said, turning his gaze back to the city walls where Gold Cloaks paced nervously, their yellow cloaks visible even from this distance. "They're scared."

"As they should be. Fear makes men do stupid things. Or smart things, if they have any sense left." Oberyn gestured toward the walls. "I'd wager half those yellow-bellied shits are contemplating throwing down their spears and opening the gates."

A horn blared from the Blackwater Bay, drawing both men's attention. A dozen ships with the seahorse of House Velaryon were maneuvering into position, completing the blockade that had been forming since dawn.

"Lord Monford seems eager to prove his worth," Jaehaerys observed.

"The Velaryons have always been quick to back dragons," Oberyn replied. "Though they were suspiciously quiet until you showed up." His tone was teasing, but the truth in it couldn't be denied.

"Better late than never," Jaehaerys said diplomatically. "Now no supplies get in, and no Lannisters get out."

A shadow passed overhead, momentarily darkening the hillside. Rhaenix circled above them, her crimson scales glinting like freshly spilled blood in the morning light, her wingspan now large enough to cast half the camp in darkness when she flew low.

"Your sister grows more impressive by the day," Oberyn remarked, shielding his eyes as he looked up.

Jaehaerys chuckled, a rare sound. "She wants to fly. The bloodlust hasn't left her since yesterday."

As if hearing his words—and perhaps she had, in that mysterious way they communicated—Rhaenix swooped lower, her wings creating gusts that set the nearby banners flapping wildly. She let out a roar that echoed across the plains, causing horses to whinny in panic and men to reach instinctively for weapons.

"Easy, girl," Jaehaerys murmured, though she was too far to hear. "Save it for the keep."

"Your sister has the right idea," said Arthur Dayne, approaching with silent grace that belied his armor. Dawn hung at his hip, its pale blade hidden in its scabbard but its presence felt nonetheless. "A display of power now might save blood later."

Jaehaerys nodded to his Kingsguard. "Ser Arthur. What news from the scouts?"

"The city is sealed tight, Your Grace. No movement at the gates since dawn. Our men report hearing arguing among the Gold Cloaks—seems loyalty to the crown is becoming an... expensive proposition." His violet eyes, so similar to Jaehaerys's own, held a glint of amusement.

"And what of our friend Lord Stark?" Jaehaerys asked.

"The northern forces have completed their encirclement of the western approach. Lord Stark has positioned scorpion killers at the front—men with shield walls trained to rush any scorpions the city might deploy." Dayne's voice held a grudging respect. "The wolves are thorough."

"They're fighting for family," Jaehaerys said quietly. "As are we all."

From this vantage, King's Landing looked almost peaceful—its red stone walls catching the morning light, the distant spires of the Red Keep rising like accusing fingers toward the sky. But Jaehaerys knew better. Within those walls, desperation festered.

Rhaenix completed another circuit, flying so low over the city walls that several Gold Cloaks threw themselves flat against the battlements. She roared again, and Jaehaerys felt her satisfaction ripple through their bond.

"I should go up," he said suddenly. "See what she sees."

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "Planning to cook some gold cloaks for breakfast? I hear they're stringy but taste of chicken when covered with fear."

Jaehaerys shot him a look that would have silenced most men. Oberyn merely grinned wider.

"I want to see their defenses from above," Jaehaerys explained. "Rhaenix thinks something's happening at the Iron Gate."

"You and that dragon," Oberyn shook his head in wonder. "Like you share one mind. It's unnerving."

"We do," Jaehaerys said simply. He whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the morning air. Rhaenix responded immediately, banking sharply and descending toward him.

"Your Grace," Arthur said, his hand instinctively moving to Dawn's hilt, "perhaps caution—"

"We're well beyond caution, Ser Arthur," Jaehaerys interrupted. "We're at the gates of King's Landing with three armies and two dragons. Caution is a luxury for those who haven't declared war."

He strode forward as Rhaenix landed with surprising delicacy for a beast her size, her talons digging into the soft earth. She lowered her wing, creating a ramp for him to ascend to her back. Before mounting, Jaehaerys turned to Oberyn and Arthur.

"Have the war council assembled when I return. It's time we discussed how to take the city without burning it to the ground."

With that, he climbed onto Rhaenix's back, settling between her crimson spinal ridges. A light touch on her neck was all it took—she sprang into the air with a powerful thrust of her wings, sending dust swirling around Oberyn and Arthur.

From above, the true scale of their achievement became clear. King's Landing was a trap, surrounded on all sides by the assembled might of three kingdoms. The Stark forces were easily identifiable from above, their neat rows of tents arranged in defensive formations that reminded Jaehaerys of a wolf's teeth. The Tully forces held the southern approach, their blue and red banners adding a splash of color to the landscape. And his own Dornish army, led by the Martells and bolstered by the houses of Dorne, formed the eastern line, cutting off any approach from Blackwater Bay along with the Velaryon fleet.

Rhaenix banked sharply, giving him a view of the harbor where Lord Monford Velaryon's ships had formed a perfect blockade. The seahorse banners fluttered proudly from each mast, and smaller boats patrolled between the larger war galleys, ensuring nothing could slip through.

"They are trapped like rats," Rhaenix's voice echoed in his mind, her satisfaction evident even in thought. "The little golden soldiers on the walls shake in their boots."

"What did you see at the Iron Gate?" Jaehaerys asked aloud, knowing she would hear him despite the wind.

"Men arguing. Swords drawn against each other. Some want to flee, others keep them at spear-point."

Jaehaerys directed her to fly closer, and Rhaenix swooped low over the Iron Gate. True to her word, a scuffle appeared to be breaking out among the Gold Cloaks. Even from this height, Jaehaerys could see men shoving each other, their yellow cloaks bright against the gray stone. A commander—distinguished by his more elaborate helmet—was shouting, his sword drawn and pointing at men who seemed to be trying to abandon their posts.

"Shall I burn them?" Rhaenix asked hopefully. "Just a small flame. A taste of what waits."

"No," Jaehaerys replied firmly. "We need the city intact. And the people inside unburned."

He could feel her disappointment but also her acquiescence. She was bloodthirsty but not disobedient.

As they circled back toward the camp, Jaehaerys spotted another familiar sight—a massive black dragon perched atop a hill to the north of the encampment. Cannibal, Daenerys's mount, was sunning himself, his scales absorbing the morning light like a void. Even from a distance, Jaehaerys could appreciate the sheer size of the beast—nearly twice Rhaenix's size, with wings that could cast entire villages in shadow.

"The old one watches," Rhaenix commented, a hint of juvenile jealousy coloring her thoughts. "He thinks himself king of the sky."

"For now, perhaps," Jaehaerys conceded. "But you're still growing."

Rhaenix's pleasure at his words rippled through their bond as she began her descent toward the command tent where the council would be gathering.

Jaehaerys's command tent stood at the center of the encampment, a pavilion of indigo silk with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on its sides in thread-of-silver. As he dismounted from Rhaenix, he saw Daenerys approaching. She wore a gown of black and scarlet, cut in the Westerosi style but with a distinctly eastern flair in its embroidery—flames dancing along the hem, devouring fabric as they climbed.

"Nephew," she called, her voice carrying across the space between them. "Your dragon grows more magnificent by the day."

Rhaenix preened at the compliment, stretching her wings to their full span before settling them against her back. Smoke curled from her nostrils as she regarded Daenerys with intelligent golden eyes; she looked as if she was trying to show herself to Dany.

"She's showing off for you," Jaehaerys said with a rare smile. "Though she's still bitter that Cannibal outweighs her."

"As if size were everything," Daenerys replied with a mischievous glint in her violet eyes. "Cannibal may be larger, but Rhaenix has a quickness about her that my old beast lacks."

Rhaenix rumbled appreciatively, her tail swishing in the dirt.

"Will you join me inside?" Jaehaerys gestured toward his tent. "We have much to discuss before the council gathers."

Daenerys nodded, falling into step beside him. Guards saluted as they passed—a mix of Dornish spears and Stark swordsmen.

Inside, the tent was sparsely furnished, except for a large table dominating the center space, covered with maps of King's Landing and its surroundings. Figurines representing their forces surrounded a wooden carving of the city. A pitcher of Dornish red and several goblets sat on a smaller side table.

Jaehaerys poured wine for them both, handing a goblet to Daenerys before raising his own. "To the last stage of our conquest."

"May it be swift and decisive," she replied, touching her cup to his before taking a sip. Her expression turned thoughtful as she set the wine aside. "I saw what you did to the pretender and his forces. Impressive work."

"He wasn't expecting a dragon," Jaehaerys replied, leaning against the table. "Few do, until they're face to face with one."

"And what of this claim he made? That he was Aegon Targaryen, firstborn of Rhaegar?" Daenerys's eyes were shrewd as she studied him.

Jaehaerys's jaw tightened. "A lie. Rhaenix confirmed it. She remembers... everything." He took a longer drink of wine, his knuckles whitening around the stem of the goblet. "She was there when Aegon died. There was no swap, no rescue. Just the Mountain and his men."

Daenerys's eyes widened slightly. "She remembers? You mean—"

"She is Rhaenys," Jaehaerys said quietly. "My sister's soul, reborn in dragon fire. She remembers dying by Armory Lorch's hands."

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp beyond the tent walls.

"Jon Connington believes differently," Daenerys finally said, her voice soft. "He's convinced that boy was Rhaegar's son. He wept when I told him the 'Aegon' had been killed in battle."

"Connington loved my father; Arthur told me as much. Gerold and Oswell said the same." Jaehaerys replied, setting down his cup. "He wanted to believe he'd saved his son. I'll speak with him. Now that the false dragon is dead, perhaps he can serve the true ones."

"Perhaps," Daenerys agreed, though her tone suggested doubt. "He was Hand to my father, and your grandfather. His knowledge could be valuable."

Jaehaerys nodded, his gaze drifting to the map. "What of the Vale? Is it secured?"

At this, Daenerys's expression hardened. "As secured as treachery can ever be. Lysa Arryn—or Tully, as she should be called—confessed to poisoning Jon Arryn on Petyr Baelish's orders."

"Who?"

"The Master of Coins, apparently," Dany told him.

"The man who got Jon Arryn killed was the Master of Coins!"

"The very same," Daenerys confirmed, tracing a finger along the map to where the Vale was marked. "She claims they've been lovers since childhood. Her son isn't Jon Arryn's at all—he's Baelish's bastard."

Jaehaerys let out a low whistle. "And Robert Baratheon made this man his Master of Coin?"

"According to Lysa, Baelish had been orchestrating chaos for years, pitting the Starks against the Lannisters, whispering poison in ears across the Seven Kingdoms." Daenerys moved to the map, her finger now hovering over King's Landing. "She claims he intended to set the realm ablaze and rule over the ashes."

"And now he sits in the Red Keep, advising Cersei Lannister," Jaehaerys mused, his purple eyes darkening. "A position I imagine he finds increasingly uncomfortable."

"If he hasn't already fled," Daenerys countered. "Rats are first to abandon sinking ships, and that city is barely afloat."

Jaehaerys shook his head. "Men like Baelish don't flee. They adapt. They find a way to make themselves valuable to whoever comes next." His voice took on a harder edge. "But not this time. Once we take the city, his head will decorate a spike alongside Cersei's."

Daenerys smiled coldly. "On that, we are in complete agreement."

She moved around the table, studying the wooden figurines representing their forces. "The Tyrells have pledged troops as well, though they're still days away. I imagine Lady Olenna was most enthusiastic about our cause after you demonstrated what Rhaenix could do."

"The Queen of Thorns recognizes good investments when she sees them," Jaehaerys replied with a hint of amusement. "Though I doubt she was happy when Lord Tarly told her that his son will marry Margaery Tyrell. Margaery and the Rest of the Tyrells cannot claim anything."

"Speaking of claims," Daenerys said, changing the subject, "what do you intend to do with Robert Baratheon?"

Jaehaerys's expression darkened. "He lives, for now." He moved to the table, rearranging some of the figurines. "After that... I haven't decided. Death would be just, but perhaps too kind."

"I visited him last night," Daenerys admitted. "He's... not what I expected."

Jaehaerys raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"He should be a monster in my eyes. The man who destroyed our family, who celebrated the deaths of my niece and nephew." She frowned, looking troubled. "But he's just a man. A broken, bitter man who claims he never sent assassins after Viserys and me."

"And you believe him?" Jaehaerys asked, surprise evident in his voice.

"I don't know what to believe," Daenerys admitted. "He said Jon Arryn always counseled against it, and he never bothered." She shook her head. "It doesn't change what he did to our family, but it made me wonder what other lies I've been told about our enemies."

Jaehaerys was quiet for a moment, contemplating this. "We'll sort truth from fiction once we sit the Iron Throne," he finally said. "And we'll dispense justice accordingly."

A commotion outside interrupted them—voices raised, the clank of armor. Jaehaerys moved to the tent flap, pulling it aside to see Ser Arthur Dayne in heated conversation with a Stark guard.

"What is it?" Jaehaerys called.

Ser Arthur turned, his expression grave. "Your Grace, riders approach from the south. Lord Stark's scouts report it's Ser Jaime Lannister, and he brings companions—including his brother."

Daenerys moved to Jaehaerys's side. "The Imp comes to join us?" she said, disbelief coloring her voice.

"Ser Arthur, have them escorted here under guard. Let's hear what the Lannister brothers have to say."

"At once, Your Grace." Ser Arthur bowed slightly before striding away, his white cloak billowing behind him.

Eddard Stark

The morning sunlight brightened the wooden cage as Ned Stark approached. The Stark guards straightened at his arrival. Ned acknowledged them with a nod, his expression unreadable beneath his heavy brow.

"Leave us," he commanded, his Northern accent thicker than usual. Whether from emotion or fatigue, even he couldn't say.

"My lord," the captain hesitated, "the prisoner is—"

"Robert Baratheon was my friend before he was your prisoner," Ned cut him off. "I've faced worse dangers than a chained man. Now go."

The guards retreated, though Ned noticed they remained within sight—loyal, but unwilling to leave their lord completely unprotected, even at his command. The North remembered its lessons from the Mad King all too well.

Inside the wooden cage, Robert stirred at the sound of familiar footsteps. He had been dozing, his massive frame slumped against the rough-hewn logs, but his eyes opened instantly—blue eyes met brown dark eyes, and Robert's face brightened up like a star.

"Ned!" Robert's voice boomed, his face splitting into a broad grin that seemed incongruous given his circumstances. "By the gods, I knew you'd come! How's that stone-faced beauty of yours? Still making you sleep on the edge of the bed when you've displeased her?"

Ned Stark stopped short, momentarily taken aback by the greeting. He had expected rage, accusations, the bitterness of betrayal—not this jovial welcome, as if they were meeting in a tavern rather than a prison camp. For a heartbeat, he saw not the disheveled prisoner before him, but the young man who had once been closer than a brother.

"Robert," he finally said, his voice carefully controlled. "I see captivity hasn't dampened your spirits."

Robert's laugh was hearty, if somewhat ragged. "Would take more than some wooden sticks and Targaryen chains to break me, Ned. You know that better than most." He rattled his manacles as if to emphasize the point. "Though I wouldn't say no to some decent wine if you've brought any. This piss they give me..." He made a disgusted face and spat on the ground.

Despite himself, Ned felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small wineskin.

"Not your favorite Arbor gold, but a passable Northern vintage," he said, approaching the bars and passing the skin through.

Robert seized it eagerly, pulling the stopper with his teeth and taking a long swallow. Some of the wine spilled through his beard, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

"Gods, that's good," he gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Always said you Northerners knew how to warm a man's blood, if not his bed." He took another swig before regarding Ned more closely. "You look tired, old friend. How are those wild pups of yours? Young Robb's grown into his father's steel, I hear."

Ned found himself leaning against the bars, the familiar rhythm of conversation pulling him back through the years. "Robb's well. Commands men twice his age now. Sansa grows more beautiful by the day—"

"Like her mother," Robert interjected with a wink.

"Arya remains... Arya," Ned continued, a faint smile touching his lips. "Wilder than ever. Bran climbs everything in sight, much to Cat's dismay. And Rickon—"

"A proper wolf pack," Robert nodded approvingly. "Always envied you that, Ned. A true family." Something darker passed across his face, quickly masked by another pull from the wineskin.

Silence fell between them, heavy with all that remained unsaid. Finally, Ned spoke, his voice lower.

"You know why I'm here, Robert."

"To say farewell to a dead man," Robert replied, his good humor never quite reaching his eyes now. "To look upon the face of the friend you betrayed—or the king who betrayed you. Depends on where you're standing, I suppose."

"You were never meant to be king," Ned said quietly.

"Seven hells, don't I know it!" Robert barked a laugh that held no mirth. "I was made for the battlefield, not that twisted chair of swords." He leaned forward, chains clinking. "Remember when we first met at the Eyrie? Scrawny Northern boy, all honor and ice. Gods, you annoyed me."

Despite everything, Ned found himself smiling at the memory. "And you were a loud, boastful storm lord who couldn't pass a serving girl without slapping her backside."

"Simpler times," Robert mused, passing the wineskin back through the bars. "Jon Arryn trying to beat some sense into our thick skulls while we dreamed of glory."

"You found your glory," Ned remarked.

"And you found your honor," Robert countered. "Fat lot of good either did us in the end."

Another silence, this one somehow both comfortable and aching with loss.

"My children, Ned," Robert said suddenly, his voice dropping to a register Ned had rarely heard from him—something close to pleading. "What will happen to them?"

Ned met his gaze steadily. "Joffrey isn't yours. None of them are."

"That golden-haired cunt?" Robert snorted. "I know that now. I heard Dornish soldier talk about it, they would taunt me every day, telling me that I was a horrible king and a horrible men, not knowing where to put it. Should've seen it—the signs were there." He shifted, chains rattling. "But Tommen and Myrcella... they're innocent in all this. And my bastards—"

"You have many," Ned observed dryly.

"Aye, scattered across the Seven Kingdoms like seeds in the wind," Robert acknowledged without shame. "But they've got my blood, Ned. The true Baratheon line. They don't deserve to die for their father's sins."

Ned considered him for a long moment. This was why he had come, he realized—not to confront his former friend or to seek justification for his actions, but to make peace with the man who had once been as close as family.

"I'll speak for them," he finally said. "Tommen and Myrcella will be protected. As for your bastards..." He paused. "I will make sure everything is provided for them."

Relief washed across Robert's face—a genuine emotion that cut through the bravado. "You're a better man than I ever was, Ned Stark."

"No," Ned shook his head. "Just a different kind."

Robert drained the last of the wine and tossed the empty skin aside. In the light, some of his former strength seemed to return to his frame, straightening his massive shoulders despite the chains.

"One more thing," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Don't let me burn, Ned."

Ned frowned. "What?"

"Fire," Robert clarified, a flash of real fear crossing his features. "When the Mad King ordered Jon Arryn to bring us to him, it wasn't just for our heads. It would have been wildfire, Ned. Like Brandon and your father. Like all the others." His fists clenched, the chains growing taut. "I'm a warrior, Ned. I have always been a warrior. I want to die as one. By a sword."

Understanding dawned on Ned's face. Of course—Robert had fought a war to escape one Targaryen's flames, only to face another's in the end. There was a certain bitter irony to it.

"I'll speak to Jaehaerys," Ned promised. "He's not Aerys. He has more of his mother in him than his grandfather."

"Your sister," Robert said softly. "Lyanna." The name hung between them—the woman who had been the catalyst for everything that followed, whose memory had haunted them both for different reasons.

"She would have hated what we became," Ned said after a moment. "Both of us. You with your drinking and whoring, me with my rigid honor."

"She'd have knocked our heads together and told us to stop being such bloody fools," Robert agreed with a sad smile. "Gods, she was fierce." He shifted, the chains rattling as he straightened to his full height. "Do you think she ever loved me, Ned? Truly?"

It was a question Robert had never asked before, not in all their years of friendship. Ned considered his words carefully.

"She admired your strength," he finally said, opting for honesty in what might be their final conversation. "Your laughter, your boldness. But Lyanna was wild, Robert. Like the North itself. I don't think any man could have truly tamed her heart."

Robert nodded slowly, accepting the truth. "Perhaps that's why I loved her so much. The one thing I couldn't conquer." He looked up, meeting Ned's gaze. "I would have been a terrible husband to her, wouldn't I?"

"The worst," Ned agreed, but without malice. "And she would have made you miserable in return."

They both chuckled at that, the sound fading into the gathering dusk. For a moment, they were young again—two boys at the Eyrie, sharing dreams and schemes under Jon Arryn's watchful eye.

"So this is how it ends," Robert finally said. "Not with a battlefield between us, but a few wooden bars."

Ned nodded, suddenly unable to speak past the tightness in his throat. He reached through the bars, extending his hand. Robert looked at it for a moment before gripping it firmly with his manacled ones.

"In another life, brother," Robert said quietly.

"In another life," Ned echoed.

No further words were necessary. They had said all that needed saying, and what remained was beyond language—the bond of two men who had shared youth and war, victory and loss, love for the same woman and diverging paths that had led them here, to opposite sides of a prison cage.

Ned released Robert's hand and stepped back, his face returning to its customary stoic mask. He turned and walked away without looking back, knowing that if he did, he might see not the fallen king but the laughing young man who had once been his brother in all but blood.

Behind him, Robert Baratheon watched him go, and for the first time since his capture, he felt something like peace.

Jaehaerys

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the four riders approaching the Targaryen camp. Despite the heat, they maintained a steady pace, though the smallest among them looked decidedly uncomfortable on his specially-made saddle.

"I begin to question the wisdom of riding straight into the dragon's lair," Tyrion Lannister remarked, wiping sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief that had once been crimson but was now a dusty brown. "Particularly when said lair contains actual dragons. Rather literal, these Targaryens."

"Shut your hole," Sandor Clegane growled from atop his massive black destrier. Half his face was a ruin of twisted scars, and his permanent scowl had only deepened as they'd drawn closer to the encampment. "Too late for second thoughts, unless you fancy a swim back to King's Landing."

"Swimming requires a certain length of limb I find myself sadly lacking," Tyrion replied dryly. "Besides, I've always wanted to see a dragon up close. Preferably not while it's digesting me, of course."

Jaime Lannister, riding at the front of their small party, glanced back at his brother. "No one's getting eaten," he said firmly. "His King gave me his word you'd receive safe passage to speak your piece."

"And we all know how reliably Targaryens keep their promises," Tyrion muttered, though quietly enough that only Podrick Payne, riding close beside him, could hear.

The young squire shot him a nervous look. "My lord, perhaps we shouldn't—"

"Jest about our potential immolation?" Tyrion finished for him. "My dear Pod, if I can't laugh in the face of death, I'd rather not face it at all. Though I dare say you might survive this encounter regardless. You're far too innocuous to burn."

They crested a small rise, and the full scale of the Targaryen war camp sprawled before them—thousands of tents arranged in neat rows, banners flapping in the breeze, soldiers drilling in formation. And beyond it all, the walls of King's Landing rose in the distance, seeming smaller and more vulnerable than Tyrion had ever seen them.

"Seven hells," Sandor muttered, reining his horse to a halt beside Jaime. "The whole fucking realm's come to knock on Cersei's door."

"Not the whole realm," Jaime corrected grimly. "Just everyone she's managed to antagonize, which admittedly constitutes a significant portion of it."

Podrick squinted, pointing toward a distant hill. "Is that—"

"A dragon. Yes." Jaime's voice was flat. "The black one—Cannibal, they call him. Daenerys Targaryen's mount."

As if to punctuate Jaime's words, a second, smaller shape soared overhead—a red dragon with black wings, circling above the camp like a massive, scale-armored hawk.

"Two dragons," Tyrion breathed, a mixture of awe and dread in his voice. "The histories come to life."

"History has teeth," Sandor observed darkly. "And breathes fire."

Their approach had not gone unnoticed. As they continued toward the camp, a contingent of riders emerged to meet them—a dozen mounted soldiers led by a figure in gleaming white armor.

"Arthur," Jaime murmured.

The riders approached, surrounding them in a loose formation that was neither overtly threatening nor particularly welcoming. Ser Arthur pushed back his helm, revealing features that bore a startling resemblance to Jaehaerys Targaryen's own—the same violet eyes, though set in an older, more weathered face.

"Ser Jaime," Arthur acknowledged with a curt nod. "You return sooner than expected, and with... company." His gaze traveled over the rest of their party, lingering on Tyrion with undisguised curiosity.

"My brother wished to speak with His Grace," Jaime replied formally. "Along with Sandor Clegane and my brother's squire, Podrick Payne."

"The Imp, the Kingslayer, and the Hound," remarked one of the other riders—a Dornishman, judging by his accent and copper-toned skin. "Just need the Spider and we'd have a full menagerie of the Usurper's creatures."

"And you have the look of a viper," Tyrion replied pleasantly. "Shall we compare venoms? I find conversation more lethal than poison, though admittedly less efficient."

The Dornishman barked a laugh. "Oh, I like this one, Dayne. He's got more bite than his size suggests."

"Enough, Oberyn," Arthur Dayne said. He turned back to Jaime. "His Grace will see you, but your companions will be disarmed before entering camp."

"Understandable," Jaime agreed, unbuckling his sword and passing it to one of the guards.

Tyrion, Sandor, and Podrick likewise surrendered their weapons—Sandor with a particularly sour expression as he handed over his massive greatsword.

"Take good care of her," he growled to the Dornish soldier who received it. "Scratch the pommel and I'll feed you your own balls."

"Your charm remains undiminished, Clegane," Tyrion remarked as they were escorted through the camp perimeter, drawing stares from soldiers who paused in their duties to watch the notorious Lannisters pass.

The command tent loomed before them, larger than the others, its indigo fabric emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Guards flanked its entrance.

Arthur Dayne dismounted, gesturing for them to do the same. "His Grace and Queen Daenerys await within," he announced, his tone making it clear that any misbehavior would be swiftly and permanently corrected.

"Queen Daenerys?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow at Jaime. "You failed to mention that particular detail."

"Consider it a surprise addition to our already precarious situation," Jaime replied under his breath as they were led toward the tent entrance.

The interior was cooler than Tyrion expected, the thick fabric providing blessed relief from the afternoon heat. In the center stood Jaehaerys Targaryen, his indigo tunic, and a darker echo of the tent itself. Beside him, equally regal in black and red, stood Daenerys Targaryen—smaller than Tyrion had imagined, but with an undeniable presence that seemed to fill the space around her.

Tyrion found himself momentarily at a loss for words—a rare occurrence in his experience. The two Targaryens before him bore such striking resemblance to the portraits and descriptions he'd read that it felt like stepping into a history book. The violet eyes, the almost otherworldly beauty—it was easy to see how their ancestors had convinced the realm they were more than human.

"Your Grace," Jaime broke the silence, bowing slightly. "I've returned as promised, and I've brought my brother, Tyrion, as well as Sandor Clegane and Podrick Payne."

Jaehaerys studied them silently, his expression betraying nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was surprisingly melodic—a singer's voice, Tyrion thought, though pitched low with authority.

"Ser Jaime. When you pledged your sword to me, you mentioned your brother might prove useful. I admit I was skeptical, but it seems you were sincere." His gaze shifted to Tyrion. "The infamous Imp of Casterly Rock."

"Your Grace is well-informed," Tyrion replied, executing a bow that managed to be both proper and slightly theatrical. "Though I prefer to think of myself as the disowned son of Tywin Lannister these days. A title I find considerably more liberating, if somewhat less lucrative."

A ghost of a smile touched Jaehaerys's lips. "And you've come to offer... what, exactly? Information? Your services? Or perhaps just your head, to save us the trouble of taking it?"

"All of the above, potentially," Tyrion answered, straightening. "Though I'd prefer to keep the last item attached to my shoulders if possible. I've grown rather fond of the arrangement."

"He has knowledge that could prove valuable," Jaime interjected. "About the city, the Red Keep... ways to end this without needless bloodshed."

Daenerys stepped forward, her violet gaze sharp and assessing. "You should thank your brother, Lord Tyrion. Without his intervention, you would likely be dead already for your family's crimes against House Targaryen."

"I thank him regularly, Your Grace, though usually for smaller favors—reaching high shelves, intimidating creditors, that sort of thing." Tyrion's flippancy masked the genuine gratitude he felt toward Jaime, whose loyalty had never wavered despite everything.

"If you wish to keep your head," Jaehaerys said, "you'll need to prove your value exceeds the satisfaction we'd get from removing it. Kneel."

Tyrion hesitated only briefly before lowering himself to one knee—an awkward motion for a dwarf, but one he managed with as much dignity as he could muster.

"I, Tyrion of House Lannister, hereby pledge my service and loyalty to Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Third of His Name, and to Daenerys Targaryen." The formal words felt strange on his tongue, but he spoke them clearly. "My knowledge is yours. My counsel is yours. My life... well, I hope to retain that, but it too is yours should you demand it."

Jaehaerys considered him for a long moment before nodding. "Rise, Lord Tyrion. Your oath is accepted, though your loyalty will be tested before it's trusted."

As Tyrion got to his feet, Jaehaerys turned his attention to the others. "And what of you, Clegane? You served the Lannisters faithfully enough, until you didn't. Why should I believe you won't abandon my cause just as readily?"

Sandor's scarred face twisted into what might have been a smile or a grimace—with him, it was often difficult to tell the difference. "I serve whoever pays me, and I kill whoever needs killing. Simple as that." His eyes, usually cold and distant, held a glint of something like respect as he looked at Jaehaerys. "You killed my brother last year at that Highgarden tourney. My brother getting what was coming to him at last."

"It was a long time coming," Jaehaerys acknowledged with a nod. "And now?"

"Now I'm offering you my sword, if you want it." Sandor shrugged his massive shoulders. "I've got no love for your family, and you've got no reason to trust me. But I'm good at killing, and there's plenty more needs doing before this war's over."

Jaehaerys turned to Podrick, who stood nervously shifting from foot to foot. "And you, boy?"

"P-Podrick Payne, Your Grace," he stammered, attempting a bow that nearly sent him stumbling into Tyrion. "I'm Lord Tyrion's squire. I'd... I'd like to remain as such, if it please you."

Tyrion gave Podrick a grateful look. The boy's loyalty was one of the few constants in his increasingly turbulent life.

"Very well," Jaehaerys said after a moment. "Now, Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime claims you have knowledge that could help us take King's Landing without a prolonged siege. Speak."

Tyrion moved to the map table, gesturing for permission before rearranging some of the pieces. "King's Landing has certain... vulnerabilities unknown to most," he began, slipping into the role of advisor with practiced ease. "Secret passages, hidden entrances, tunnels beneath the walls and the Red Keep itself."

"Passages Cersei would know about as well," Daenerys pointed out. "And presumably guard."

"Some, yes," Tyrion conceded. "But not all. My sister is many things, but thorough scholarship isn't among her virtues. In my time in King's Landing during the years, I made a study of the Red Keep's secrets—partly out of intellectual curiosity, partly out of a healthy desire not to have my throat cut in my sleep."

He pointed to specific locations on the map of King's Landing. "Here, here, and here—entrances to tunnels built by Maegor the Cruel. Forgotten by most, but still passable. They lead directly into the bowels of the Red Keep. A small force—skilled fighters, moving quietly—could infiltrate while the main army serves as a distraction at the gates."

"And once inside?" Jaehaerys asked, studying the map with newfound interest.

"Capture Cersei," Tyrion replied simply. "Cut off the head, and the body will follow. The Gold Cloaks have no great love for my sister—they fight from fear, not loyalty. With her in chains, they'll throw open the gates and bend the knee fast enough to make their spines crack."

Jaehaerys and Daenerys exchanged.

"You're suggesting we send men into a nest of vipers," Daenerys said slowly, "on the word of a Lannister."

"On the word of a Lannister who has no love for his sister and every reason to want this war ended quickly," Tyrion corrected. "The city will fall either way—we all know that. The only question is how many innocent people die in the process." He looked from Jaehaerys to Daenerys and back. "Burn the Red Keep, and you may kill Cersei. Burn the city, and you become the very monarch your grandfather was."

His words hung in the air, a challenge and a warning rolled into one. Jaehaerys's expression darkened momentarily, but thoughtfulness replaced anger as he considered Tyrion's proposal.

"A small council will consider this plan," he finally said. "Ser Arthur, summon Lord Stark and the Blackfish. Daenerys and I will hear this proposal in full detail." He gestured to guards. "Take Clegane and the squire to quarters under watch. Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion will remain."

As the tent emptied of all but the key players, Tyrion allowed himself a small sigh of relief. His head remained on his shoulders, which constituted a success by his current, admittedly low standards.

The command tent had transformed from an audience chamber to a war room in the space of an hour. The large map table now dominated the proceedings, with the key figures of Jaehaerys's campaign arranged around it like pieces on a cyvasse board. The Targaryen king himself stood at the head, flanked by Daenerys. To his right stood Eddard Stark, his long face severe and thoughtful as he studied the wooden figures representing their forces. Beside Lord Stark, the Blackfish—Brynden Tully—leaned forward, his weathered hands braced against the table edge, his blue-gray Tully eyes narrowed in concentration.

On the opposite side, Jaime and Tyrion Lannister stood somewhat apart, the golden lion and the stunted cub, both acutely aware of their precarious position in this gathering of former enemies.

"Let me understand this clearly," the Blackfish said, breaking the silence that had followed Tyrion's detailed explanation of his plan. "You propose we send a small force through sewers and forgotten passages, right into the Red Keep itself, based on maps you've memorized and passages you've personally explored?"

"That's the essence of it, yes," Tyrion confirmed, meeting the old knight's skeptical gaze without flinching.

"And if these passages are guarded? Or collapsed? Or simply fabricated to lure us into a trap?" The Blackfish's voice was gruff—he was probing, testing the plan for weaknesses as any good commander would.

"Some may be guarded, though I doubt it—most of the Gold Cloaks are needed on the walls," Tyrion replied. "As for collapsed passages, that's a risk, yes. But having traversed most of them myself, I can attest to their structural integrity. Maegor built to last." He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "And as for fabrication—well, if I wanted to lead you into a trap, I could concoct a far more convincing one than sending a handful of men into darkness while the bulk of your forces remain safely outside."

Ned Stark, who had remained silent throughout most of the discussion, finally spoke. "Why help us at all, Lannister? Your family stands to lose everything if we succeed."

"My family stands to lose everything regardless," Tyrion replied bluntly. "You have dragons. The question isn't whether you'll win, but how many will die before you do." He gestured to the wooden pieces representing King's Landing's populace. "I have spend a long time in King's Landing, it has one of my favorite brothels. I'd prefer not to see it reduced to ash and bone."

"A sudden attack of conscience from a Lannister," the Blackfish remarked dryly. "How novel."

"Not conscience," Tyrion corrected. "Pragmatism. The city will be yours. Better it be a city worth having than a smoking ruin."

Jaehaerys, who had been listening intently, leaned forward. "You say these tunnels lead directly beneath the Red Keep. How close to Cersei's chambers?"

"Close enough," Tyrion replied. "There's a passage that emerges in the lower levels, near the cells where the dragon skulls are kept. From there, it's a straightforward path to the royal apartments—assuming your men know how to move quietly and avoid patrols."

"And you believe Cersei will surrender once cornered?" Daenerys asked, her voice tinged with skepticism.

"My sister is many things," Tyrion said carefully, "but a martyr isn't one of them. She values her life above all else—except perhaps her children. If properly approached, yes, she might surrender to save herself."

Jaime shifted uncomfortably at this assessment but didn't contradict it. When all eyes turned to him, he cleared his throat. "I know my sister better than anyone," he said, his voice steady despite the weight of admission behind the words. "If I'm part of this infiltration, I believe I can convince her to surrender rather than fight to the death."

"You believe you can convince her?" the Blackfish echoed incredulously.

A flicker of pain crossed Jaime's face, quickly masked. "Yes," he said simply. "Because despite everything, she'll listen to me when she'll listen to no one else. And because she knows, deep down, that this fight is lost."

Ned Stark studied Jaime with hard, gray eyes. "And we're to trust the word of the Kingslayer? A man who broke his most sacred oath?"

The old accusation hung in the air like a blade. For a moment, Tyrion thought his brother might snap back with his usual defensive sarcasm. Instead, Jaime met Stark's gaze steadily.

"You're right not to trust me, Lord Stark, but I have been giving information for over a year now. I've already betrayed Cersei by coming here. Every bridge back to my former life is ashes. All I have left is my word, as tarnished as it may be."

The simplicity of the admission seemed to catch Ned off guard. He held Jaime's gaze for a long moment before nodding once, a gesture of acknowledgment if not forgiveness.

Jaehaerys had been silent during this exchange, his violet eyes moving from speaker to speaker. Now he straightened, commanding attention without raising his voice.

"A direct assault on King's Landing would succeed," he said, his tone measured. "But at what cost? Thousands dead, including innocents. The city damaged, perhaps beyond repair." He gestured to the map. "Cersei Lannister is rumored to have wildfire caches placed throughout the city—a desperate woman with nothing to lose might choose to burn everything rather than surrender."

"Aerys all over again," Jaime murmured, so quietly that only Tyrion heard him.

The Blackfish stroked his gray beard thoughtfully. "The tunnels offer a chance to end this with minimal bloodshed," he conceded. "If—and it's a significant if—they're as accessible as the Imp claims."

"Lord Tyrion," Daenerys corrected firmly.

The Blackfish inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Lord Tyrion," he amended. "Though the risk to the infiltration party would be considerable."

"War is risk," Ned Stark observed. "The question is whether this particular risk is worth taking."

Jaehaerys studied the map for another long moment before looking up, his decision evident in his eyes. "We'll proceed with the infiltration plan," he announced. "A small team, led by Ser Jaime, will enter through the tunnels while our forces demonstrate at the gates as a distraction."

"Who else should go?" Daenerys asked.

"Men who can move quietly and kill quickly," the Blackfish suggested. "Some of my best Tully scouts, perhaps a few of the Dornish—they're skilled in close-quarters combat."

"I should go as well," Tyrion said, drawing surprised looks from around the table. "I know the passages best, and Cersei may be more inclined to believe Jaime if I'm there as a hostage of sorts."

"Or she might kill you on sight," Jaime pointed out.

Tyrion shrugged. "A distinct possibility, but one I'm willing to risk. Besides, I've always wanted to tour the Red Keep's dungeon system from the inside—purely academic interest, you understand."

"This isn't a jape, Lannister," the Blackfish growled. "Men will die on this mission."

"I'm well aware," Tyrion replied, his tone sobering. "Which is why I won't send others on a path I'm unwilling to walk myself."

Jaehaerys considered him for a moment, a new respect apparent in his gaze. "Very well. Ser Jaime will lead, with Lord Tyrion as guide. The Blackfish will select five of his best men, and I'll add five Dornish fighters." He turned to Ned. "Lord Stark, would you contribute men to this venture?"

Ned nodded. "I'll send five of my best."

"When?" Daenerys asked.

"Tonight," Jaehaerys decided. "When the city is dark and the Gold Cloaks are at their weariest. Our armies will begin positioning for what appears to be an assault at dawn, drawing attention to the walls while the infiltration team enters through the tunnels."

The Blackfish nodded approvingly. "A solid strategy. If it works, we take the Red Keep with minimal casualties. If it fails..." He glanced at the Lannister brothers. "We still have dragons."

"Then it's decided," Jaehaerys said with finality. "Select your men, gather your equipment. You leave at midnight."

As the council dispersed, Tyrion found himself standing beside his brother, watching the others file out of the tent.

"You know this is madness," Jaime said quietly. "Cersei will never surrender peacefully."

"Perhaps not," Tyrion agreed. "But it's our best chance to end this without turning King's Landing into a second Field of Fire."

Jaime's face was grim as he gazed down at the map. "For all our sakes, brother, I hope you're right."

Outside the tent, the sun was setting behind the walls of King's Landing, casting long shadows across the encampment. Tomorrow, those walls would either open peacefully to a new ruler or become the funeral pyre for thousands.

Cersei Lannister

Night fell over King's Landing like a funeral shroud. In the royal chambers, candles guttered in their holders, sending shadows dancing across walls hung with faded Lannister crimson. The room smelled of wine and fear—a sour, acrid combination that had become as familiar to the servants as their queen's increasingly erratic demands.

Cersei Lannister stood at her balcony, a crystal goblet dangling from her fingers, the third—or was it the fourth?—of the evening. Her hair, once a cascade of golden glory, hung lank around her shoulders, hastily brushed but lacking its usual luster. Her gown of crimson silk was immaculate, a pointed contrast to her disheveled appearance—as if she could maintain the illusion of control through fabric alone while her world unraveled around her.

Beyond the walls, countless campfires burned in the darkness. Each light represented enemies—Dornish spears, Northern swords, Tully arrows, all waiting to strike. And above them all, the greatest threat: dragons, real dragons, creatures of legend returned to unmake everything she had built.

"More wine," she commanded without turning, sensing the servant hovering nervously at the chamber door. The empty flagon on the table behind her told its own story.

"Your Grace, the cellars report this is... this is the last of the Arbor gold," the servant stammered, approaching with exaggerated caution, like one might approach a wild animal.

Cersei turned slowly, her green eyes narrowing. "The last?" The word dripped with dangerous disbelief.

"The... the blockade, Your Grace. No shipments have reached the city in a week."

Something like a laugh escaped her—a brittle, jagged sound that held no mirth. "So I am to face the end of House Lannister sober? The gods are crueler than I imagined." She drained the goblet and hurled it past the servant's head, where it shattered against the wall in a spray of crystal shards. "Bring Dornish red, then. Bring anything. And send my son to me."

The servant bowed hastily and retreated, relief at escaping unscathed evident in every hurried step.

Alone again, Cersei returned to her contemplation of the enemy fires. "Like fireflies," she murmured to herself, "soon to be extinguished." Her fingers traced the outline of a small key hanging on a chain around her neck—the key to the wildfire caches, her final gambit.

A tentative knock interrupted her darkening thoughts.

"Enter," she called, composing her features into something resembling motherly warmth as the door creaked open.

Tommen appeared, small and vulnerable in his nightclothes, his golden hair tousled from sleep. A kingsguard shadow—Ser Boros Blount, fat and useless—hovered behind him.

"Leave us," Cersei snapped at Blount, who seemed relieved to bow and withdraw. The door closed with a soft thud that nonetheless made Tommen jump.

"Mother?" he asked, his voice small. "Is something wrong? It's very late."

Cersei swept toward him, sinking to one knee to bring herself to his eye level. She took his face in her hands, studying his features with an intensity that clearly unsettled him. So much Lannister in him—the gold of his hair, the shape of his jaw—but his eyes held a softness that wasn't hers. A gentleness ill-suited to the game they played.

"Nothing's wrong, sweetling," she lied, her voice honeyed. "I simply wished to see you. Is that so strange?"

"No, but..." Tommen glanced nervously at the shattered goblet, its remains glistening on the floor like fallen stars. "Are you angry?"

"Not with you. Never with you." She brushed hair from his forehead, a gesture of tenderness at odds with the feverish gleam in her eyes. "Do you know what surrounds us, Tommen? Do you understand what waits beyond our walls?"

He nodded hesitantly. "The dragonriders. And their armies."

"Enemies," Cersei corrected, her voice hardening. "Wolves and snakes and traitors who would see us destroyed. They would take everything from us—our home, our crown, our very name." Her grip on his shoulders tightened imperceptibly. "But I won't let them. A Lannister always pays her debts, and they have accrued a debt beyond imagining."

Tommen's eyes widened, fear replacing confusion. "What... what will happen?"

Cersei smiled, the expression not reaching her eyes. "Fire, sweetling. Beautiful, cleansing fire." She rose, moving to a sideboard where a fresh flagon of wine—Dornish red, as requested—had appeared as if by magic. She poured generously, the liquid dark as blood in the candlelight. "Did you know wildfire burns so hot it can melt stone? Even dragonflame can't match it."

"Wildfire?" Tommen's voice cracked on the word. "Like in the stories about the Mad King?"

Something dangerous flashed across Cersei's face. "Mad, they called him. Perhaps he simply saw more clearly than others. Perhaps he understood that sometimes you must burn the world to remake it." She drank deeply, red wine staining her lips like a fresh wound. "We have enough wildfire to turn this entire city into a pyre. Let them come with their dragons. We'll all burn together."

Tommen took a step back, his lower lip trembling. "But... the people. The city..."

"The city is full of traitors," Cersei declared, her voice rising. "I see how they look at me now. I hear their whispers. They'd open the gates in a heartbeat if they dared. They deserve the fire as much as our enemies."

A tear slipped down Tommen's cheek. "Mother, you're frightening me."

The naked fear in his voice seemed to pierce through Cersei's madness, if only momentarily. She blinked, focusing on her son's face as if seeing him clearly for the first time that evening. With visible effort, she softened her expression, setting aside the wine.

"Oh, my sweet boy," she murmured, kneeling again to embrace him. "There's nothing to fear. Mother will protect you, always. Whatever comes, we will face it together, as lions should."

Tommen allowed himself to be held, though his body remained rigid with unease. "Is Uncle Jaime coming back to help us?"

The question was innocent, but it hit Cersei like a slap. She stiffened, pulling back to stare at Tommen with a strange mix of fury and pain.

"Your uncle is a traitor," she said, each word crisp and cold. "He abandoned us. Abandoned me. Rides with our enemies now, no doubt whispering our secrets in their ears." Her nails dug into Tommen's shoulders, making him wince. "But it changes nothing. I don't need him. We don't need anyone but each other."

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her increasingly manic speech. "What?" she snapped, rising to her feet, one hand instinctively reaching for the wine once more.

The door opened to reveal Qyburn, his black robes seeming to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. His face was grave, though a strange excitement lingered in his eyes—the look of a man fascinated by the collapse he was witnessing.

"Your Grace," he said with a small bow. "I thought you should know. There's unrest among the Gold Cloaks. Several attempted to desert their posts at the Iron Gate. Commander Slynt had them executed, but..."

"But?" Cersei prompted, her voice dangerously soft.

Qyburn's gaze flicked briefly to Tommen before returning to Cersei. "The men's loyalty is... fragile. They see the dragons. They count the armies. They know what awaits them."

"They know nothing," Cersei hissed. "If they desert, they die. It's very simple."

"Unfortunately, Your Grace, fear of death becomes less effective when men believe death is certain either way." Qyburn's tone remained clinical, as if discussing an interesting medical case rather than the potential collapse of the city's defenses. "They begin to calculate which death might be less... painful."

Cersei's face contorted with fury. "Then remind them that traitors die screaming. Show them the heads of those who tried to flee. Mount them on the battlements for all to see!"

"As you command," Qyburn replied with another slight bow. "Though I should add, the smallfolk grow restless as well. Food shortages have begun, and rumors spread about the dragons. Some speak openly of surrender."

"Surrender?" Cersei's laugh was wild, unhinged. "There will be no surrender. Not while I draw breath." She strode to the balcony again, wine sloshing over the rim of her goblet as she pointed to the distant campfires. "Let them come. Let them all come. They'll find nothing but fire and blood—their precious Targaryen words turned against them."

Qyburn exchanged a worried glance with Tommen, who stood pale and trembling by the bed. "Perhaps the young king should return to his chambers now, Your Grace? It grows late."

"No, the King will stay with me."

Jaime Lannister

Midnight in King's Landing brought darkness thick as velvet, broken only by scattered torches along the city walls and the distant constellation of enemy campfires beyond. The streets lay empty, curfew enforced by nervous Gold Cloaks who huddled near their watchfires rather than patrol the shadows. Even the rats seemed to move with cautious restraint, as if sensing the city's precarious state.

At the base of Aegon's High Hill, where the sewage tunnels emptied into Blackwater Bay, the darkness shifted. Forms materialized from the gloom—thirteen men, moving along the shoreline, their weapons wrapped in cloth. At their head, Jaime Lannister was carefully covered in black leather, though nothing could disguise his distinctive height and bearing.

"Seven hells, it stinks worse than I remembered," Tyrion muttered, his voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of waves against stone. "And I had such vivid memories."

"You're welcome to swim back to camp," Jaime replied dryly, crouching to examine the iron grate that blocked the tunnel entrance. "The rest of us have work to do."

One of the Tully scouts—Denys, a lean, graying man with the silent tread of a lifetime spent stalking prey—moved forward with a set of slender tools. "Rusted but not sealed," he murmured, working at the ancient lock. "Give me a moment."

The small party waited in tense silence. Besides the Lannister brothers, Blackfish had contributed five of his most skilled scouts, men who moved through forests like shadows and could kill with a whisper. Ned Stark had sent two of his household guards—veterans of Robert's Rebellion who knew how to move in armor without sound. And the Dornish contingent comprised four men selected by Oberyn himself—wiry, quick fighters with curved daggers and eyes accustomed to darkness.

With a faint click that seemed thunderous in the stillness, the lock yielded. Denys eased the grate open, its hinges mercifully silent thanks to the water that constantly bathed them.

"I go first," Tyrion insisted, stepping forward before anyone could object. "I know these tunnels better than any of you, and I'm least likely to bump my head on the ceiling."

Jaime frowned but nodded. "Stay close. One wrong turn down here could see us lost until our bones join the foundations."

The tunnel mouth gaped before them, a throat of slick stone disappearing into absolute darkness. Tyrion produced a small, hooded lantern, opening it just enough to cast a faint glow that extended no more than a few feet ahead. "Follow in single file," he instructed. "Step only where I step. Some of these stones are looser than a tavern wench after seven ales."

"Charming as always, Lannister," one of the Dornishmen—Maron—muttered.

"I save my charm for less dire circumstances," Tyrion shot back as he ducked into the tunnel. "And for women with questionable standards."

The passage was cramped—barely tall enough for Tyrion to stand upright, forcing the others to crouch or crawl in sections. The walls wept with moisture, slick with generations of mildew and worse. Twice they froze as rats scurried past, their sudden movements causing hearts to race and hands to fly to weapons.

After what felt like hours but was likely no more than twenty minutes, the tunnel widened into a junction. Three passages branched off, each identical in their forbidding darkness.

"Now the fun begins," Tyrion whispered, studying the walls carefully. "Ah, there." He pointed to a faint marking etched into the stone—a small, stylized dragon, barely visible beneath years of grime. "Maegor's sign. This way."

They continued through a nightmarish maze, ascending gradually as the tunnels worked their way up through the hill toward the Red Keep. The air grew marginally fresher, though still heavy with the must of ages.

"Stop," Jaime hissed suddenly, raising a hand. "Listen."

Above them, muffled but unmistakable, came the rhythmic tread of armored feet—a patrol passing overhead. They held their breath until the sound faded, then proceeded with renewed caution.

Finally, the tunnel ended at a vertical shaft with iron rungs embedded in the wall, climbing into darkness. Tyrion held the lantern higher, revealing a small stone platform about twenty feet up.

"The dragon vault," he whispered. "Where the Targaryen skulls were kept before Robert had them moved. From there, we can access the lower levels of the Keep."

"You first," Jaime said to one of the Stark men—Harwin, a solid, steady fellow with arms like tree trunks. "Make sure it's clear."

Harwin nodded, strapping his sword to his back before beginning the climb. The rungs creaked but held his weight. At the top, he disappeared onto the platform, returning a moment later to give the all-clear signal.

One by one, they ascended, Tyrion going last despite his protests that "if the ladder collapses, I'd rather not have eleven men landing on top of me." Jaime reached down with his hand to haul his brother up the final few rungs.

The dragon vault was a cavernous chamber, now empty of its former occupants but still bearing the grandeur of its purpose. Dust covered the floor, undisturbed save for the occasional rat track.

"No patrols here," Denys observed, examining the thick layer of grime. "Not for months, maybe years."

"Robert never liked reminders of the dragons," Jaime said softly. "Too many ghosts."

Tyrion moved to a small, unassuming door set into the far wall. "This leads to a service stair," he explained. "Servants once used it to avoid being seen by noble visitors to the vault. It will take us up to the main levels, near the royal apartments."

As they prepared to continue, one of the Dornishmen—Deziel, the youngest of their party—spoke up. "What if this works? What if we take the queen without raising the alarm? What then?"

"Then we use her to end this siege before it begins," Jaime replied, his voice tight. "One way or another."

The staircase was narrow and wound steeply upward, forcing them to climb single file once more.

The upper end of the staircase opened into a small alcove tucked behind a tapestry. Jaime carefully eased the heavy fabric aside, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond. A single torch guttered in a sconce halfway down its length, casting just enough light to navigate by.

"The Queen's Ballroom lies that way," Tyrion whispered, pointing left. "Beyond it, the royal chambers. At this hour, Cersei will almost certainly be in her chambers."

"Guards?" Maron asked, his curved dagger already in hand.

"Two at her door, most likely," Jaime replied. "Possibly more, given the circumstances."

They moved silently down the corridor, freezing periodically at distant sounds—a guard's cough, the creak of armor, the faint echo of voices.

As they approached the junction leading to the Queen's Ballroom, Harwin suddenly raised a fist, signaling an immediate halt. Voices grew louder—a patrol approaching from an adjoining hallway. There was nowhere to hide in the bare corridor.

Jaime made a swift decision, gesturing toward a door on their right. They filed through quickly, finding themselves in what appeared to be a small audience chamber, mercifully unoccupied. Through the crack in the door, they watched as four Gold Cloaks passed, their conversation drifting to them in fragments.

"—says she's gone mad—"

"—wildfire, can you believe it? The whole bloody city—"

"—rather take my chances with the dragons, honestly—"

When the patrol passed, Jaime exchanged a troubled look with Tyrion. "Wildfire?" he mouthed silently.

Tyrion's expression darkened. "We need to hurry," he whispered.

They continued their cautious progress, skirting the Queen's Ballroom entirely by using another service passage Tyrion remembered. As they drew closer to the royal apartments, tension mounted. Each man checked his weapons, prepared for the confrontation to come.

Finally, they reached the antechamber leading to Cersei's quarters. As expected, two Kingsguard stood at attention before her doors—Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant, neither particularly renowned for their skill or courage.

"Let me handle this," Jaime murmured, straightening his clothing and stepping out into the open before anyone could stop him.

Blount and Trant startled, hands flying to their swords before recognition dawned.

"Ser Jaime?" Blount gasped, his piggy eyes widening in shock. "But... you're..."

"A traitor? An enemy?" Jaime's smile was sharp as he approached them, his own sword still sheathed, his demeanor casual. "Come now, brothers. You know me better than that."

Trant had recovered from his surprise, his narrow face hardening. "Stand back, Kingslayer. The Queen warned us you might come. Said you'd turned against your own blood."

"Did she?" Jaime continued his approach, stopping just beyond sword reach. "And you believed her? The woman who sees conspiracies in every shadow?" He shook his head sadly. "I've come to help her, you fools. To get her out before the dragons come."

Blount hesitated, glancing at Trant. "The dragons..."

"Will be here by dawn," Jaime finished for him. "The city is surrounded. The Gold Cloaks are deserting. And my sister sits in there, drinking herself into a stupor while planning to burn the city rather than surrender."

"You lie," Trant snarled.

"Do I?" Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Ask yourselves this—when the city falls, and it will fall, who do you think the dragons will burn first? The faithful Kingsguard who stood between them and Cersei Lannister? Or the men wise enough to step aside?"

The moment of indecision was all the opening needed. From the shadows of the antechamber, two slender darts flew, striking the knights in the narrow gap between helm and gorget. The poison worked quickly—Trant and Blount had barely registered the sting before their legs gave way beneath them, their bodies crumpling to the floor.

"Dead?" Jaime asked as the Dornishmen emerged from hiding.

"Yes, why would we need them alive?" the Dornishmen asked with a tilt of his head and Jaime had no answer to that.

"Let me go first," he said quietly. "Alone."

Tyrion touched his brother's arm. "Jaime..."

"She won't harm me," Jaime insisted, though something in his eyes suggested he didn't entirely believe his own words. "And she may be more willing to surrender if approached by... family."

The others exchanged glances before nodding reluctantly. Jaime drew a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and pushed open the doors to Cersei's chambers.

Cersei Lannister

Cersei stood at the far end of the room near her balcony, her back to the doors as they opened, her silhouette outlined by moonlight streaming through the open archway. She wore a gown of deepest crimson, her golden hair loose around her shoulders, a goblet of wine clutched in one white-knuckled hand.

"More wine," she commanded without turning. "And send for Qyburn. I need to know if the—"

She stopped abruptly as she sensed something amiss. The silence behind her was wrong—too heavy, too expectant. Slowly, she turned, and for a moment, her heart stuttered in her chest at the sight of Jaime standing in her doorway.

But he wasn't alone.

Standing beside him, barely reaching his brother's elbow, was Tyrion. The Imp. The vile little monster who had murdered their mother by being born. Cersei's shock curdled instantly into hot rage, burning away the fog of wine that had clouded her mind moments before.

"You," she spat, her eyes moving between the brothers. "Both of you. Traitors. Kinslayers."

They killed Joffrey with their betrayal.

"Cersei," Jaime replied evenly, stepping fully into the room with Tyrion at his side. Both moved like they were approaching a dying animal.

Her laugh was brittle, sharp enough to cut glass. "The prodigal brothers return. Come to see what's left of your family before your dragon masters burn us all?" She raised her goblet in a mocking toast. "You're just in time for the pyre, dear brothers."

They've come to kill me, she thought, a strange calm settling over her. Let them try.

"There doesn't need to be a pyre, Cersei," Jaime was saying, his hands—both flesh and blood—spread in a gesture of peace. "The city can still be saved. You can still be saved."

"Saved?" she echoed, her lips curling into a sneer. "Is that what you call it? Surrender to the dragonspawn and his Dornish whores? Live out my days as a prisoner—or worse, an object of pity?" She drained her wine in one long swallow, then hurled the empty goblet. It sailed past Jaime's head and shattered against the door, sending crimson droplets spattering like blood across the white stone. "I would rather burn."

"And Tommen?" Tyrion asked, his mismatched eyes watching her with an intelligence that had always unnerved her. "Would you rather he burn too?"

Something twisted in Cersei's gut at the mention of her youngest. Sweet Tommen, gentle Tommen—the only one of her children who had never disappointed her. Not like Joffrey with his gleeful cruelty that even she couldn't control, nor Myrcella with her soft heart.

"Don't you dare speak his name," she hissed at Tyrion. "You, who murdered our mother. You, who would have murdered all of us if given the chance."

"No one needs to die tonight, Cersei," Jaime said, taking another careful step toward her. "The city will fall—you know this. But it can fall without bloodshed. Tommen can be safe."

As he spoke, Cersei noticed the men walking in and spreading out along the walls of her chamber, blocking every exit save the balcony at her back. The night air was cool against her skin, carrying the distant sounds of the enemy camp—thousands upon thousands waiting to tear down everything she had built.

"Safe?" she laughed, the sound edged with hysteria. "Like Elia Martell's children were safe? Do you take me for a fool, brother?"

"You're many things, sister," Tyrion replied, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But never a fool. You know when a game is lost. You know when the pieces must be sacrificed to save the king—or in this case, your son."

Cersei's hand moved to her throat, where the small key hung on a thin chain. "Do you know what this is?"

Jaime's expression darkened with recognition. "Cersei, don't—"

"The key to the wildfire caches," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Placed throughout the city on my command. One word from me, and King's Landing becomes a pyre to rival any dragon's flame." She smiled, savoring the alarm that rippled through the intruders. "Perhaps I've already given the order. Perhaps the candles are already burning down to the substance even as we speak."

"You wouldn't," Jaime took another step toward her, close enough now that she could see the flecks of darker green in his eyes—eyes so like her own, the mirror she had gazed into all her life. "Not while Tommen is in the city."

"Wouldn't I?" Cersei challenged, though the thought of Tommen consumed by wildfire made her stomach clench. "When has mercy ever been rewarded, Jaime? When has surrender ever meant anything but death and disgrace?"

For a moment, something like pity crossed Jaime's face—and that, more than anything, stoked the furnace of her rage. How dare he pity her? He, who had abandoned her for the Targaryen cause? He, who had never truly understood the game, the constant, clawing fight to hold what was hers by right?

"It's over, Cersei," Tyrion said softly. "The dragons are here. The city is surrounded. The Gold Cloaks desert their posts by the hour. There is no victory to be had—only degrees of defeat. Choose the one that lets Tommen and Myrcella live."

Their words were penetrating the armor of her hatred, finding the mother beneath the queen. Cersei felt her resolve wavering, the familiar cold calculation returning. Perhaps there is a way, she thought. Perhaps I could negotiate safe passage for Tommen, for myself. Perhaps—

But then she remembered. The letter the Targaryen boy had sent them.

I will take what is mine with Fire and Blood.

The words crystallized something in Cersei's mind, clearing away any momentary weakness. There would be no mercy. Not for her, not ultimately for Tommen. The same fate that had befallen the Targaryen children would befall her own.

Her decision solidified like steel being quenched. If we are to die, she thought, we die on my terms.

Before anyone could react, she lunged sideways, yanking open the door that led to the adjoining chamber. "Tommen!" she called sharply. "Come here. Now."

There was a shuffle of movement, and then Tommen appeared, clearly having been awakened from sleep. His hair was mussed, his eyes wide with confusion and fear as he took in the armed men in his mother's chamber.

"Mother?" he questioned tremulously. "What's happening? Uncle Jaime? Uncle Tyrion?"

Cersei grabbed him, pulling him roughly against her. One arm encircled his chest while the other held the dagger she had secreted in the folds of her gown—a weapon none of them had noticed until that moment.

"Tell your men to drop their weapons," she ordered the Lannister brothers, her eyes wild. "Tell them to back away from the door."

"Cersei," Jaime's voice was strangled. "What are you doing? He's just a boy."

"He's my son," she hissed, the dagger pressing close enough to Tommen's skin to dimple it but not break the surface. "Mine to protect. And I'll protect him from them, from you, from everyone who wants to take him from me."

Tommen stood frozen in her grasp, tears streaming silently down his face, his eyes moving between Jaime and Tyrion in mute appeal.

"Lower your weapons," Jaime commanded the others without taking his eyes off Cersei. "Back away from the door."

The men complied reluctantly, though they remained tense, ready to strike at the first opportunity.

"Now what?" Tyrion asked, his voice carefully controlled. "You can't escape the city, Cersei. The gates are watched, the harbor blockaded."

"Escape?" Cersei's laugh was chilling. "Is that what you think this is about?" She began moving backward, step by careful step, toward the open balcony. The night air stirred her hair. "There is no escape. There is only the choice of how it ends."

Understanding dawned in Jaime's eyes, and naked fear replaced his careful composure. "Cersei, no. Don't do this. Think of Tommen."

"I'm only thinking of Tommen," she replied, continuing her slow retreat. Her mind flashed to Joffrey. He was gone. She could not save Myrcella. But she could save him. "Do you think they'll let him live? The last lion cub? The boy they called king? They'll kill him, Jaime. If not today, then tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. A quiet poison, a pillow over his face while he sleeps. That's what happens to deposed kings."

"The King gave his word," Jaime insisted, edging forward as she edged back. "Tommen will be fostered, protected. He's an innocent."

"There are no innocents in this game," Cersei said, a sudden clarity washing over her. She felt almost sober now, her mind sharp as Valyrian steel. "Only winners and losers, and we've lost, brothers. We lost the moment the dragons returned to Westeros."

They had reached the balcony now. Behind Cersei, there was nothing but open air and a long fall to the stones below. The night wind whipped her hair around her face, and she could taste salt on her lips—tears she hadn't realized she was shedding.

"Let Tommen go," Tyrion urged, his mismatched eyes watching her with that damnable understanding. "This isn't his fight, Cersei. It never was."

"A hostage?" Cersei smiled, a broken, terrible thing. "No, Tyrion. This isn't a negotiation. This is an ending."

She glanced down at Tommen, her expression softening. My last joy, she thought. My sweet, gentle lion. "Close your eyes, sweetling," she whispered. "It will be quick. Like falling asleep."

Tommen's terrified gaze locked with Jaime's. "Uncle Jaime," he whispered, his voice thin with fear. "Help me."

Something broke in Jaime at those words. With a desperate lunge, he crossed the remaining distance between them. Cersei's eyes widened, and she yanked Tommen backward, her body tipping over the balcony rail.

What happened next seemed to unfold slowly, as if time was moving much slower. Jaime's hands—his strong hands that had wielded swords and held her through countless nights before he left her—seized Tommen's arm, yanking him forward. The boy tumbled into his uncle's embrace, safe.

But Cersei had nothing to hold onto. Her eyes met Jaime's one last time—green meeting green, mirror images that had once been inseparable parts of a whole. In that final gaze was everything: rage, betrayal, loss, and beneath it all, a flicker of what might have been relief.

Then she was falling.

I was meant to be great, she thought, the wind stealing her breath. I was meant to rule.

Her last conscious thought was not of Jaime or Tyrion or Myrcella or even Tommen. It was of the Iron Throne itself, fashioned from the swords of the conquered. She had never sat upon it, not formally, but she had ruled from its shadow. It had been hers in all but name.

The throne, she thought as darkness rushed up to claim her. It was always meant to be mine.

Then the stones rose to meet her, and Cersei Lannister—daughter of Tywin, sister of Jaime and Tyrion, mother of kings—knew nothing more.