39.Tickling the Dragon

18th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

The Light of the West, Casterly Rock

“Lady Regent,” came the reedy voice of a boy barely old enough to hold a sword, let alone summon her to anything of import. “The Small Council has convened. The Lord Hand asks if you mean to attend.”

Cersei turned her gaze upon him slowly, not hiding her distaste. It was a Lannister—or so they said. One of the lesser sorts. Tyland? Or was it Tylon? It hardly mattered. Another distant cousin from an endless line of distant cousins. This one was Devan’s page, a scrawny creature with sandy hair and watery blue eyes. Not a true lion.

“Tell Lord Devan I shall not be attending,” she said, voice clipped. “Not today. Not tomorrow, either. He should stop fetching for me for the slightest of trifles if he has any sense.”

The boy bowed deeply and scampered away like a rat.

Cersei watched him go, then reached for her goblet and sipped. The Arbour’s golden wine swirled around her tongue, rich and sweet. A pleasure worth savouring, one of the few left to her. The Reach had little else of note beyond wine. Wine and treachery.

The Small Council had become a nest of squabbling fools, all butting heads over dragons and dead men. She had grown weary of their bleating. Troop numbers. Men. Steel. Grain. Coin. More coin, and always coin. Robert had ignored them for years and ruled well enough. Gods, how she hated admitting he might have had the right of it.

Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to other matters. Today, much like the previous day, they drifted towards Joffrey, her golden boy. Her king.

They would all pay for the treachery. Highgarden’s walls would not shield them forever, and Cersei would not rest until she saw every Tyrell thrown in a shallow grave, every last thorn on the cursed line of grasping stewards pruned. She would see to it.

But Baelish had proven the greater serpent, hiding deeper than them all.

Littlefinger. Her lip curled at the name, another grasping fool, if from the line of a Braavosi sellsword this time. She had misjudged him; they had all misjudged him. The whoremonger with his sly tongue and smug little smiles. He had always seemed small, friendly and easy to command. Yet behind that smile hid something far more sinister, and his hands were long and reached far.

Days with Hugo had loosened his tongue. Secrets had been pried from his mouth, along with many teeth, and with them came truths Cersei had not wished to hear. The little man had played them all like a master mummer—Stark and Lannister, Baratheon and Arryn, they had all danced to his tune. A carefully planted word at the right moment, a suspicion whispered in the listening ear. Littlefinger had killed Jon Arryn, borrowing Lysa’s hand for it and putting the blame on the Lion of Lannister. It was he who had set the Starks like rabid dogs at her, once again using Lysa’s hand for it. He had even stolen from the crown, from her son, draining gold like a leech and feeding it to the Vale, to the Iron Bank, to warehouses and dockyards, to ships and inns and taverns—places Cersei could not take. Most of it was ash and cinders, burned like the King’s Landing in that damned green inferno.

Baelish had done even worse—he had dreamed. Dreamed of crowns and thrones and a realm bent to his will. The jumped-up flesh-peddler had lusted after the Iron Throne. He had wanted to be the king of the Seven Kingdoms. He had always planned to see her sons dead. Her wine turned bitter on her tongue.

He had nearly succeeded, too. The riot that had started that terrible fire in King’s Landing—her city—had been his doing.

She now knew better to underestimate a man because he looked weak and boneless like a worm.

Still, she smiled when she thought of his screams. Baelish would rot in darkness until his name was forgotten, and only then would he die. Slowly and most painfully.

But she cursed other names in her thoughts. Tyrell. Martell. Dayne.

They would all pay, sooner or later. Not one would escape her grasp; she would make sure of it.

The roses had succeeded where the Dornish had failed. But the Tyrells had not slain a lion and walked away unscathed—the green fire had burned them too. They had murdered Joffrey. They had robbed her of a son, but she could not prove it to the realm. Not unless she wanted to let Baelish out and have him confess. But that would see him to a quick death, see that his days of agony would be cut short. Unacceptable.

If she could not prove it, she would invent proofs. Fabricate sins. Treason was treason, and they had already bent the knee to dragonspawn. That alone was enough to damn them.

She had considered sending catspaws after them. Daggers in the dark to do the dirty work, but it would not be enough. It would be too swift, too painless. No, Cersei wanted them to live on and watch as their family crumbled around them and their House fell into ruin little by little, until they died in anguish and despair.

Soon. When the House of the Dragon fell, the roses would quickly follow. Their stems would be cut, their roots torn from the earth just as Lord Tywin had done with the Reynes and Tarbecks. Those who dared mock House Lannister would meet the same grisly end.

The Martells and the Daynes, too, would pay for maiming her daughter. Her sweet little girl, her beautiful little lioness. Out of the snake’s den and into the wolf’s jaws.

Winterfell was a long way off, too deep in the frozen North. The Bastard of Winterfell was not so foolish as his father had been. Nor as merciful. Jon Snow had crushed his foes, personally beheaded the cream of Bolton’s crop, then broke Ryswell at the first sign of defiance and sent a dozen Northern houses into quiet terror. Even now, her letters to the Northern Lords were unanswered. The savages were too afraid, no matter what honours she promised.

She hated him for it, and yet… somewhere beneath the hate, there was a flicker of cold respect. Born on the wrong side of the sheets he might be, but that was a true lord, a true man.

But he held her daughter. That could not stand.

Cersei’s days were spent in planning, her nights in sleepless rage. No plan yet had flowered into action. The North was far. Too far. And Winterfell, well-fortified and well-led, was not so easily breached, not when a wolf sat there. Gold and land and titles had not tempted Stark’s bannermen, no matter how generous Cersei had been in her offers. She refused to believe that all of them were loyal to a bastard, yet the result was like a cold slap to her face.

She would not stop. A lioness did not forget her cubs. She would see Myrcella home again—or burn half the world trying.

A sharp rap against the chamber door broke the silence, scattering Cersei’s thoughts. With a flick of her hand, Ser Robert Strong stepped forward and swung the heavy oaken door wide. An older servant stood beyond, a familiar old face with a name she never bothered remembering.

“My lady,” he bowed, “Ser Damion Lannister seeks a private audience.”

“At last,” Cersei murmured, voice laced with anticipation. “Send him in.”

The servant withdrew. Moments later, Ser Damion entered with slow, uneven steps. The journey had not been kind. His face had grown gaunt and pallid, and his once-sharp eyes were dull with fear. She motioned Ser Robert away. As always, he said no word, only turned and stood sentry outside the door, sealing it shut with a soft thud.

“Is it done?” she asked unceremoniously.

The old castellan collapsed into the chair opposite her, knees folding like straws. “Aye,” he rasped. “A Faceless Man… for Aegon.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “And Daenerys?”

“The gold was not enough,” he whispered. “All of it went for Aegon.”

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.

“Fifty tons of gold for one man?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You paid a king’s ransom and couldn’t even manage both? Why not hire a sellsword? An assassin from Myr or Lys or even Asshai by the Shadow?”

Damion shrank before her fury. “The two of them are too well-guarded,” he offered weakly. “The Faceless Men are the only ones who could do it without a trace. The only ones that guarantee a kill and have the means to do it. With Aegon’s death, who would raise Daenerys’s banners? Who would follow a madwoman, even if she has a dragon?”

Cersei’s lips curled in disdain. “And what if she finds herself a consort with strength and ambition? The realm teems with lordlings eager for power, and more than willing to bed a Valyrian beauty for a crown.”

The old castellan held his tongue, looking defeated. But his spineless silence only angered her further.

“Nothing to say anymore? Of course. Even a fool would not admit to incompetence and blind assumptions,” she mocked. “But I don’t need a fool for a castellan. I should see you replaced, Damion. Perhaps I will. Get out—while I still feel merciful enough to let you keep your head.”

With a flick of the bell, the door creaked open, and Ser Robert loomed in, his greaves clinking over the marble below. The old man rose with effort, offering a stiff bow before tumbling out of the room.

Worse still, Daenerys posed a threat. Aegon might soon expire, but so long as the silver-haired widow and her dragon lived, there would be fools to stand beneath her banners. Should she take an Arryn, Martell, or even some powerful Stormlord for a husband, she could continue the current campaign.

Alone again, she reached for her wine and drank. The golden vintage felt too sharp on her tongue now, too bitter. So much gold vanished into Braavosi pockets, yet the dragoness would live.

Cersei was tempted to fling the pitcher of wine at the wall, but such wanton displays of fury were reserved for men, like her late oaf of a husband, who loved smashing and throwing things. It was how he had won his crown, after all. There was only one Rhaegar to crush with his warhammer, so he spent the rest of his time pounding away his fury at whores, food, hunting, and everything else that displeased him.

Cersei drank again and grimaced. Her thoughts turned to the fool knight she had been bedding, Ser Horton Lannett. He had grown too bold of late, asking things above his station, glancing at her not with awe but entitlement. Perhaps it was time to send him east to chase shadows and die in a quest for glory, far away from her gaze. Cersei could always find a new toy to satisfy her needs.

Why did she have to be the only one shouldering all the work? Without her guiding hand, her sweet little Tommen would have probably long been killed by all those scheming harpies and grasping roses.

She rose from her chair, discarding the wine.

Perhaps it was time for another lesson. Her attempts to shape him into a worthy king had met with failure, but Cersei had not yet given up.

She left the parlour and headed to the royal chambers—once her father’s chambers, and now Tommen’s. Ser Robert shadowed her, his steps lumbering in her wake. There was something unnatural in his silence, even septons who had sworn off words would grunt or breathe, but Cersei no longer questioned Qyburn’s miracles. The giant in white had never failed her.

As she took yet another turn, she saw a red cloak dashing up the stairway leading to the council chambers.

“Halt!”

The man nearly stumbled as he turned and hurried to her, breathless.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing low. “How may I serve?”

“Why rush in such haste, ser?”

“An envoy from the North has arrived at the Lion’s Mouth. He requests an audience with the council.”

And the runner was rushing to inform the Hand.

“From the North?” Cersei echoed, intrigued. Plans were already churning in her mind.

“Yes, my lady. He named himself Harwin Reed.”

Reed. The name struck a chord. Not Stark, not Umber or Karstark or a Manderly, but still Northern, if far less important. Crannogmen, perhaps. Swamp rats who hid in bogs and lived in floating huts.

“Who knows of this envoy?” she asked lightly.

“None beyond the men at the gate and I.”

“Good,” she said, smiling tightly. “Invite this Harwin Reed to the guest quarters. I shall see him myself. There’s no need to trouble the council for every backwater wretch who knocks at our gates. And not a word to anyone else of this.” The last words were spoken with a hint of warning, in the same tone her father used to give orders.

The guard bowed and ran to obey, while Cersei turned her steps toward the guest wing.

If the crannogman was truly who he claimed, he might yet prove useful—more so than Lucion, at least, whose letters came too seldom, too thin on detail. Cersei doubted it was on purpose; it was probably the wolf bastard design, restricting her cousin from writing much or often. Or perhaps the birds had simply flown astray. Old Maester Creylen was fond of saying that ravens often lost their way in storms. The cold and the snow could halt even the bravest of travellers, let alone mere birds.

Her steps carried her to one of the finer guest apartments in the Rock, second only to the royal suite where Robert had stayed in his rare visits.

The rooms were a proper show of the Lannister wealth, each detail woven with deliberate care, as it ought to be. Gold was to be displayed for all to see and admire, not lie sleeping in some dark vault. Beneath her feet, a Myrish carpet of deep imperial purple softened each step, its corners turned just enough to reveal the polished planks of mahogany from the Summer Islands.

The walls, veined black marble inlaid with glimmering gold, bore tapestries older than some Houses. They told of a tale of pride and glory: Lannister ships routing ironborn reavers at Fair Isle, gold-cloaked lancers breaking Reach lines at Cornfield, and on the newest—the torn-down banners of House Reyne thrown into the flood of Castamere. All those Triumphs were immortalised in silken tapestries with the sole purpose of reminding the guests of the Lannister glory.

The furniture was hewn from goldenheart and weirwood, varnished until it shone like gold and silver in candlelight. Cushions were wrapped in the softest Quartheen silks, and the velvet drapery was a deep Lyseni crimson. The bedding was woven from the finest Norvoshi wool dyed black as pitch, as smooth as any silk. Two twin pairs of tall arches, carved directly into the rock, looked out toward the sea. The windows were set with clear Myrish, bound in pale weirwood that would never rot. Between them was a door, leading to a balcony with a gorgeous view of the Sunset Sea.

If the crannogman had only seen the gloom of Winterfell and its grey, brooding halls, then this suite would be the grandest thing he’d ever known—save for Cersei Lannister herself. The choice of room was by her design—men were more pliable when their senses were overwhelmed. She had learned that lesson long ago. A smile spread across her face as she reached for the bell.

In a handful of minutes, she was already seated at the head of the long dining table as the servants worked with practised grace. Eight courses had been prepared; far more than custom demanded, though she knew Northerners found excess unfamiliar and intimidating.

Even the cutlery was a statement. What looked like gold was Qohorik steel, colored by smiths whose craft was rivalled only by Valyria’s lost forges. Stronger than any common metal, and worth thrice its weight in pure gold. Even a dullard would see the meaning: This is the power of House Lannister.

Harwin Reed was not what Cersei had imagined. She had expected a short, reedy-thin half-man with damp clothes and the stink of swamp.

Instead, a warrior of lean muscle and lithe grace strode through the door, taller than most knights, with broad and sculpted shoulders. His steps were soft, quiet, and almost deadly in their grace, reminding Cersei of a shadowcat.

A mane of dark, unruly curls crowned his brow. His face was sharp and clean, and the lopsided smile only added to his charm. His eyes were the brightest shade of green she had seen—Lannister green. Cersei almost felt kinship to him. Calling him handsome would not do the man justice. Even the faint lightning-shaped scar across his brow only deepened the effect, lending a ruggedness that men often spent years of war to earn.

There was something regal about him.

Cersei’s gaze slid from his face to his garb and soured somewhat. He wore a plain surcoat of mossy green, the black lizard-lion of House Reed stitched across the chest. Beneath it, linen and wool—sturdy, unadorned, and Northern to the bone. Yet even so, he bore no stink of sweat or saddle. A faint scent of pine and clean leather was all she could catch.

Ser Robert Strong stood behind her, looming silent as death in his white plate. If Harwin Reed noticed, he gave no sign. His gaze swept over the room—over the gold, the Qohorik steel, the proud tapestries and dismissed it all in an instant, as though it were nothing but a fishmonger’s stall in Lannisport. Then his eyes met hers, and Cersei felt as though she stood naked beneath that piercing stare. It was not lechery she saw there—it would have been easier if it were—but something calm and cold.

A moment later, he smiled, and the intensity was gone.

“Lady Regent,” he said. His voice was soft, but if his bow had been even an inch shallower, it would have bordered on insult. “I am Harwin of House Reed, sent here by His Grace, King Jon of House Stark.”

His tone was firm and deep, just the way she liked it. A dark desire to possess this man, to have him between her legs, stirred deep within her.

Cersei inclined her head, her smile warm and carefully measured. “Casterly Rock welcomes you, ser.”

At her nod, a servant stepped forward with a tray bearing the tokens of guest right—bread, salt, cheese, even a tankard of dark beer. When dismissed, she vanished soundlessly, leaving only Harwin, herself, and the silent knight behind. By her orders, the whole guest wing was emptied for this meeting.

Reed tore a piece of crusty bread, dipped it into the salt, and popped it into his mouth. Then he reached for the dark ale to wash it down, ignoring the finer fare.

“I like your hospitality,” he said with a grin. His Northern brogue was faint, far gentler than Eddard Stark’s had ever been. “But I am no knight.”

Of course not. The Old Gods offered no such trappings. Knighthood belonged to the Seven, to fools and singers and girls dreaming of gallant husbands. This one clearly knew better, and Cersei only wanted him more for it. Was there anything sweeter than a proud man melting between her legs, pliant to her every whim and order?

“All the same, my lord,” she purred, gliding toward the table. “Come, sit. Sate your hunger and quench your thirst with warm wine. You’ve travelled far from your cold swamps.”

“You honour me,” he said, settling into the chair with the ease of one uncowed by titles or grandeur.

“Only common courtesy,” Cersei said sweetly, toying with a golden lock as she sat across him. “But I wonder—why you, Lord Harwin? I had thought your people content to remain in their infamous crannogs, uncaring about the affairs of the Realm.”

It was bait, and the crannogman took it with a soft chuckle.

“I volunteered,” he said, rubbing his brow. “And His Grace was kind enough to grant me the honour.”

Cersei leaned in, giving him a good view of her cleavage. “So it was curiosity that drove you south? A hunger for adventure?”

“Aye. I’ve never seen the South, and someone had to come.”

“And how do you find it?”

“Hot,” he said with a chortle. “And blinding. I didn’t know it was possible to have my eyes grow tired of gold, but today I learned otherwise.”

She preened at that. Yet she chided herself a moment later. He was a tool. Men are to be used, not admired.

“I must confess, your arrival was… unheralded,” she said, her tone shifting toward suspicion. “No raven flew ahead, nor was any warning given.”

“The king is secretive,” Harwin said with a shrug, draining the cask of ale with one breath. “Though truth be told, I think he finds letters dull.”

So even bastards breed insolence in their followers. Cersei’s gaze narrowed as the man pulled something from his belt and dropped it on the table. A direwolf head snarled at her from a circlet of dark bronze. It was smooth and warm in her hand. Lucion had described it perfectly.

So it was true. The bastard of Winterfell had indeed sent an envoy. An envoy as insolent as his master.

“How… intriguing,” she murmured, folding her hands beneath her chin. “Shall we speak plainly, then? What brings you to my halls, Lord Harwin?”

“The king has an offer,” he said, stretching like a cat. But when he looked at her again, the softness was gone, and his eyes were knives. “One that may warrant the ears of your small council, perhaps?”

Cersei stiffened, blood flaring hot beneath her skin. So that’s his game. He thinks to sidestep me. If Tywin were here, this crannogman would be bowed, broken, and bleeding by now. Her fury drained, giving way to smouldering desire as the rugged face did not falter for a heartbeat. She was not Tywin Lannister. Cersei would have him kneeling by other means. Kneeling between her legs and putting his insolent tongue to good use.

“I speak with the king’s voice,” she said coolly. Her fingers drifted to the ruby laces of her bodice, daringly loosening them just enough to hint at what lay beneath. “And if your offer is unworthy, there will be no need to trouble the council.”

Harwin’s eyes flicked down for half a heartbeat. A small smile curled at the corner of his mouth—half amusement, half acknowledgement—but then he turned back to his plate.

“As you wish, Your Grace.” He reached for the roast duck. “Might I eat while we speak? The road was long, and the meat in the Neck isn’t fit for dogs most days.”

“Of course. It was all prepared for you.”

She sipped her wine and grimaced inwardly. The vintage had soured, bitter and dull on the tongue. But her eyes stayed on the man before her.

Gods, he ate like Robert, tearing into meat as though it might flee the plate—but with such grace it was almost galling. Not a drop of wine spilt. Not a stain on his surcoat. A beast with a courtier’s manners. It both irritated and fascinated her.

“I shall be blunt,” Harwin said between bites. “His Grace seeks alliance with House Lannister against House Targaryen.”

Cersei raised one golden brow. “A bold offer.”

“It is in our mutual interest,” Harwin said. “The House of the Dragon must not rule again.”

Ah, they were finally getting to the meat of the matter. Blunt and direct, like Northmen always were.

“And what, pray, can the North offer?” She cocked her head. “Fierce warriors the Northmen might be, but your armies have all been broken. The winter cold and endless snow must have bound what little remains to your dreary holdfasts. You’ve no ships. Even if your swords were sharp, it means nothing before dragons.”

Harwin did not flinch. “Aye. Steel won’t do. But His Grace has something else, something better—a secret weapon. A way to slay the dragon left by his ancestors.”

Cersei scoffed, loosening another lace. “What weapon? Magic? Old stories? If such a thing existed, would they call Torrhen Stark the King Who Knelt?”

“I swore not to speak of it,” Harwin said lazily, eyes gliding over her bodice and pausing on the venison pie instead. “It comes from after Torrhen. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The Targaryens won’t last a year.”

He believed every word of it. Cersei saw the certainty in his eyes and heard it in his voice. She wanted to laugh—but something deep in her gut, something instinct long-forgotten, told her not to.

Still, her smile never faltered. “Well then,” she acknowledged carefully. “Suppose you speak the truth. You’ve no cause to give aid to my son’s while your liege still claims a crown. Our Houses spilt each other’s blood not long ago. Surely it’d suit the North better to let the dragons burn us first.”

She wanted to see what this bastard king truly wanted. Entertaining the man some more would not hurt, even if she knew Aegon’s life belonged to the Stranger. Daenerys still remained a problem.

The man poured himself another cup—Arbour gold this time, abandoning the black beer he had drained like water. Harwin Reed drank boldly, like a man unafraid of poison.

“Aye,” he said, setting the jug down with a clink, “but Jon Stark bears your son no ill will. Tommen has not wronged the North, and those who have are long buried. My king sees no sense in fighting a senseless war over pride and old feuds.”

It was a pleasing offer, but Cersei Lannister knew daggers often hid behind such honeyed words.

“And what terms does your wolf-king demand for it?” she asked, lifting her goblet but not drinking.

“House Stark shall deal with the Targaryens and their fire-breathing beasts in the field. In return, His Grace requires but three things: recognition as King in the North, the return of Ice’s second half, and the head of Meryn Trant for laying his hand upon Princess Sansa.”

Cersei let out a soft, scornful laugh. “A greedy bastard, this Jon Snow. To ask a king to acknowledge his lesser as an equal? If your liege seeks peace, let him come south, beg forgiveness, and swear fealty. Then perhaps Tommen shall pardon his past crimes and grant him Winterfell besides.”

“You will not budge at all?” he asked between his bites.

She waved her hand dismissively. “A sharp sword means nothing to me, and Ser Meryn is no great loss. But crowns are not so freely given. If Tommen yields to a Snow in Winterfell, how long before the falcons of the Vale or the snakes of Dorne demand the same?”

The crannogman only shrugged as a fresh dish, a quail pie, skin crusted golden and glistening with oil, was pulled before him. He ate like a man who had not seen proper food in years.

“Then we are at an impasse,” said Reed with maddening equanimity. “But the North shall not relinquish its crown. That much is not for barter. All else… can be negotiated.”

She studied him, weighing. “And this alliance you speak of—how would it be sealed? My son’s hand is promised, and your king is already wed. And I want my daughter back.”

“The North seeks peace, not the dangerous entanglements that saw it pulled into this mess in the first place. Trade, not marriage. Let the flow of gold and grain replace swords and blood. Once Trant’s head and Ice’s second half are in the North, and trade begins anew, Princess Myrcella shall be sent home to her kin.”

She said nothing. The salmon was attacked next, dressed in lemon and greens, a spread fit for a king, disappearing before her eyes with frightening speed. Even Robert would have struggled to match Harwin’s gluttony.

The offer was not without merit. But peace at the cost of Tommen’s dignity? Never. To acknowledge another king would unravel what little held the realm together. She saw it as clear as day—Tommen, King of the Four Kingdoms, laughed at in every corner of Westeros. No, the realm could only have one king, or it would shatter sooner rather than later.

Harwin Reed was still feasting, unconcerned, and Cersei watched him with narrowed eyes. A plot took root in her mind—something that might shift the balance without yielding an inch.

She loosened the last laces of her bodice, slowly, deliberately. Her pale skin felt cool in the air. When next he looked up, she leaned forward, and the swell of her breasts was barely restrained by the remaining silk.

But Harwin Reed did not lower his gaze to look, and it wounded her pride more than she cared to admit.

“Tommen cannot afford to accept such an agreement, I’m afraid.” Her voice was low, husky, and full of regret and suggestions. “The gods are cruel to set us on opposite ends of the Great Game, Ser Harwin. But you and I need not be foes.”

He nodded, his eyes not moving from the food. “Making enemies where allies might be found is the highest of follies.”

Cersei rose, prowling around the table. She sat to his right, and her hand quickly found his knee.

“Perhaps after your hunger is sated,” she whispered, “we could retire for a different kind of feast.”

The man froze as if turned to stone. The fork in his hand came to a stop in mid-air, a piece of salmon hanging from it. Even his breath halted dead in his throat.

“I am wed, Your Grace,” he said at last. “I have sworn solemn vows before gods and men to keep faithful to my wife.”

It was like talking to Ned Stark again. Stubbornly loyal to a fault, yet it only kindled Cersei’s desire. Wouldn’t she be able to command that loyalty later?

“Surely you won’t begrudge a lonely widow like myself some joy, my lord?” She smiled coyly. “What your wife does not know cannot wound her either.”

Her hand slid higher.

He caught her wrist, his grip firm yet not clenched too tightly.

“You ask me to spit on my vows,” he said coolly. “To break my word and discard my honour. Accursed are those who speak falsehoods before a heart tree.”

“The gods don’t care,” she whispered breathily. “They never did, dear Harwin. Let me help you soothe your worries—the forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.”

Harwin Reed’s eyes turned to ice. He pushed her gently away and rose from his seat.

“No.”

The refusal was sharp and final. It burned worse than a slap.

Cersei’s breath caught. The insult stung worse than the Walk of Shame. She stood, her rage bubbling underneath her skin.

“You would refuse me?” she hissed, incredulous. “Am I so loathsome?”

The crannogman met her gaze without flinching.

“Aye,” he said. “You sicken me, Cersei Lannister. I came here to speak with a queen, not entertain a whore. You would offer your body while your very family is in great peril? While your brother is about to face the dragons in the east, and your boy-king of a son sits alone and friendless on his gilded throne?”

She choked with fury.

“You dare?!”

Harwin laughed. “I dare speak what others close their eyes and mouths to.”

“Ser!” she shrieked, turning to the white shadow by the door. “Take this dog to the dungeons. Let him rot there ’til he learns how to speak to his betters!”

Ser Robert Strong moved with sudden speed, his gauntlet fists reaching for the envoy’s hands.

But Reed did not flinch. The knight grasped and pulled—only to tear away a sleeve. The crannogman stood unmoved, a statue of calm fury. “My sister made that for me.”

The hulking kingsguard lunged again, and this time, Harwin moved to meet him. His hands snapped to the knight’s gauntlets. Steel met flesh, and yet no cries of pain ever came. The Northerner did not yield.

Ser Robert, mountain of a man, could crush bone with ease. But here he stood, locked, unable to overwhelm a man near two heads shorter.

“Gods know she warned me,” Harwin muttered, looking troubled for the first time. “Told me not to trust you. I should have known the rites of hospitality mean little to a harlot like you. Sansa always was sharp when she wanted to be.”

“Sansa?”

The name came softly, yet it struck Cersei Lannister like a slap. She blinked, startled, her thoughts scattering like broken glass.

But the man did not answer her. Harwin Reed—or whatever he truly was—stared at her with a face growing colder by the heartbeat.

“She warned me of your false smiles and empty promises,” he sighed, looking tired. “I should have known you would spit on my olive branch. Nearly two days wasted coming here, ah!”

Cersei frowned, perturbed. “What—what olive branches? What are you prattling about?”

He ignored her again. Something shifted in the man before her. His features remained the same, but his presence changed. The air itself grew heavy, almost solid, and was filled with an unseen pressure that pressed upon her chest like a mountain.

Harwin’s hair darkened to a deeper shade of black, and purple crept into his once green eyes as the scar on his brow faded, only to be replaced by different ones, running over his eye and his cheek.

Cersei gasped as her next breath never arrived. Her lungs burned as she struggled to breathe, yet no air came. She staggered, hands clawing at her throat. Then, as though by some cruel mercy, the pressure lifted as suddenly as it had come. She inhaled sharply—only to choke again at what came next.

With a crunch like bones and a screech of steel, her knight’s gauntlets folded. Plate bent, flesh tore, bone shattered beneath fingers that seemed made of iron. Before her horrified eyes, Robert Strong was flung across the chamber like a discarded doll. He crashed against the gilded wall with a thunderous crack that shook the sconces.

Cersei’s mind reeled. Her eyes darted wildly from one horror to the next. The crannogman moved with inhuman swiftness, already standing over the broken knight.

With a snarl, he tore the helm from Ser Robert’s head.

A choking stench made her gag as dark purple, bloated skin crowned by milky eyes was revealed underneath. The face was not unfamiliar; Cersei Lannister had seen him a few times too many. Gregor Clegane. She had suspected such, but not like this. Never like this.

Someone was shrieking in terror. The shrill sound was coming from her own throat, Cersei realised.

The giant corpse twitched, its dead limbs struggling stiffly. But the Northman pinned it beneath his boot, driving it deeper into polished mahogany below, the boards groaning in protest.

“I hadn’t expected necromancy on this side of the Wall,” he said, far too calmly, and from nowhere a sword appeared in his hand, dark bronze that seemed to drink in the light.

With one smooth stroke, the blade sliced through bone, flesh, and plate, cleaving the knight in twain. Rot spilt forth from the opened innards, the stench choking her throat. Cersei collapsed to her knees, retching.

Rough hands seized her by the arms. She was hauled to her feet and almost buckled again under her trembling feet. A scrap of golden silk was pressed into her hands. She saw no mockery in those glowing eyes.

“You didn’t know, it seems,” he said coolly. “Not truly. Not that it matters. I’d burn the corpse if I were you.”

She wiped her mouth, her limbs shaking with shame and fury both. “W-who are you?” she rasped. “What do you want?”

“What was it that you said?” He tilted his head, tone filled with mock pondering. “Ah, yes—I speak with the king’s voice. And so do I, Cersei Lannister. My words are Jon Stark’s words.”

Sansa—she was his sister. And Sansa Stark had only one brother left alive. Her mind reeled again. Eddard’s bastard?

The resemblance was clearer now—his jaw, the sharp lines of his brow, but prettier. Yet those eyes of Valyrian purple were different from a Stark. They were bright, unforgettable. Cersei would have remembered this far more dashing version of Eddard Stark… but she didn’t.

Then, her rage returned with a vengeance. Jon Snow had come here in person. In the heart of the Lannister power.

Gods, the sheer daring of this cur to bargain with her, hiding behind some foul sorcery!

But it mattered not; sorcery and trickery did little to save the First Men and the Children from Andal steel, nor would it help Jon Stark now. Cersei refused to be used like a hostage against her son.

“Your offer was refused,” she spat harshly. “You might have captured me now, but you will never leave this place alive. There are hundreds of guards between you and the gates. You’ll die long before you see a way out of Casterly Rock.”

“Will I?” His smile twisted into something harsher. “An empty bluff. The swords of Casterly Rock are all sworn to you, and they would not see you suffer harm—they would surrender first. But I do not need to kill you or them or to leave.”

He strode to the table and lifted the cask of Arbour gold as though it weighed no more than a feather.

“A gift,” he said lightly. “To mark the end of Guest Right. You might have been a poorer host than most, but it’s only proper.”

“No!” she cried, unable to stop herself. “Not my wine!”

Her protest was ignored, as the bastard flung the cask over his shoulder and merrily walked out to the terrace, whistling a cheery tune. Cersei followed, dazed, compelled by morbid curiosity more than reason.

Something enormous approached then, making her freeze.

First, she heard it. It was like a drum beating far in the distance, but a thousand times deeper. The sound echoed against the air with a steady rhythm, and she felt a chill creep down her spine. It made her feel small, insignificant, like a scared child when thunder struck. It was a primal sort of fear, the one that froze her very mind.

“Farewell, Cersei of House Lannister,” he said, one foot on the gilded railing. “Let it not be said that I am narrow-minded and cruel. My offer stands for one more moon, but no further.”

Then he chuckled as if he was laughing at a jest only he knew, and he leapt.

Mind still muddled with disbelief and rage, Cersei stepped forth and peered over the balcony’s railing, only to freeze yet again.

It was a dragon. An enormous beast that would dwarf most warships with leathery wings bigger than sails, with dark wings and bright scales streaked with blue. And on its back sat a familiar figure.

She watched, too stunned to move, as the great beast wheeled in the sky. The barbarian turned to look at her with a knowing smirk, raised the cask of wine high as if to mock her, and drained it in his greedy gullet without a care in the world.

Her shaky legs finally gave out, and Cersei Lannister fell on the marble flooring, laughing hysterically.