The war was over, and the crown rested where it always should have—on your head. The chaos of rebellion had settled into uneasy peace, though the scars remained. Your new reign was a fragile thing, with alliances to rebuild, houses to pacify, and a court to stabilize. And it was in this careful balancing act that Tywin moved his next piece.

Cersei arrived at court on the pretext of paying her respects to her new king. A young woman of striking beauty, she carried herself with the poise of one who had been groomed for greatness. Her golden hair caught the sunlight like a crown of its own, and her green eyes shone with a sharpness that went beyond mere admiration. She knew what she wanted—and she had no intention of waiting for it to be handed to her.

You honor us with your presence, Your Grace, she said when she was brought before you in the throne room. Her voice was soft but steady, the kind of tone meant to disarm. She curtsied low, but not so low as to seem meek.

Her father had taught her better. There was confidence in the tilt of her chin, in the careful way she met your gaze.

She had heard the whispers, the king, victorious but burdened, the weight of a realm on his shoulders. A man who had won his crown through fire and blood but now found himself surrounded by snakes. Cersei had always liked snakes.