In the deep shadows of the Red Keep, Lord Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the long, oaken table, his back ramrod straight, his hands resting, poised and controlled, on the arms of his chair. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across his angular face, highlighting the sharp lines and cold, calculating gaze that had made him the most feared man in Westeros. Silence had settled over the room like a heavy cloak, the tension in the air palpable, as his family awaited his judgment.
Across from him sat his brother Kevan, ever the quieter presence, with his hands folded neatly before him, his face a mask of patience and stoic concern. Next to him was Jaime, leaning forward in his chair, his golden hair slightly disheveled and his eyes fierce with frustration. At the end of the table sat Tygett, his face an unreadable mask, but his posture, like his brother's, was taut with the knowledge that this was a matter of utmost importance.
Tywin broke the silence with a voice like iron, low but resonating with authority. "The Mountain, our greatest weapon, our most feared instrument of terror... has been felled. By a man. A man who should have been no more than a footnote in our war. Instead, he has humiliated us all. Hadrian Peverell—do you have anything useful to say about this?"
Jaime's fingers gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. "He's not like any man I've faced, Father." His voice was laced with frustration and confusion, the memory of his encounter with Peverell haunting him. "It's... as though he can predict every move you make. I've faced great fighters, men with years of experience and skill, but this... this was different. It was almost like he had a second sight. Like he was reading me."
Kevan, whose countenance was ever so composed, interjected quietly, his voice filled with a caution that matched his manner. "There are rumors, Tywin. Whispers of things beyond the sword. Magic, sorcery... things we've never encountered before." His gaze shifted to his brother, then back to Jaime, as if to ensure the conversation stayed grounded. "People speak of powers older than the gods themselves. Some say Peverell may be one of them."
Tywin's sharp eyes narrowed, his expression betraying nothing but cold calculation. "Magic," he said, almost as though testing the word, letting it hang in the air. "A ridiculous notion." He paused, his gaze flickering briefly to Jaime. "And yet, you're not the only one who has encountered this... Peverell. There must be something we are missing. Something in his abilities that we do not yet understand."
Tygett, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he spoke, his voice carrying a subtle yet firm edge. "It's not magic, per se, that worries me, brother. It's the strength of this man, the nature of his resolve. A man like Peverell could turn the tide of any war. If he decides that the Lannisters are his enemies, he could ruin us."
Jaime's jaw clenched at his brother's words. "I'm not afraid of him," he said, his voice heated with the Lannister pride that ran through his veins. "We can find a way to defeat him. No one is invincible."
Kevan, ever the pragmatist, gave his brother a long, assessing look before speaking again. "Perhaps, but we must be cautious. There are forces in this world that we have never dared to reckon with—forces that may be beyond our comprehension. We cannot underestimate what we're dealing with here."
Tywin's lips tightened into a thin, grim line. He was a man who dealt in certainties, in tangible threats that could be crushed under the weight of gold, steel, and strategy. But this... this was something different. A threat that made him reconsider his every move. "You are right," he conceded finally, his voice soft but hard with purpose. "We cannot allow Peverell to grow any stronger. He has made a fool of us, and that cannot be allowed to stand."
He paused, his cold eyes moving from Kevan to Jaime and Tygett, each of them weighed in turn. "Jaime, you've already faced him. You'll continue to watch him. Study him. Find his weaknesses. I will not allow one man to undo what we've worked for."
Jaime's lips curled into a half-smile, though his eyes betrayed the strain of his humiliation. "I won't let you down, Father."
Tywin nodded imperceptibly before turning to his younger brother, Kevan. "Kevan, I want you to make inquiries—discreet ones. There are men in Essos who dabble in... the arcane. Seek them out. Find whatever knowledge we can to combat this. We may not believe in magic, but I won't let something we cannot see bring down House Lannister. Do not fail me."
Kevan inclined his head, his voice soft but resolute. "Of course, brother. I will leave at once."
The tension in the room thickened as Tywin's voice broke the silence once more. "We will strike at Peverell's weaknesses, not with brute force, but with precision. And, if necessary, we will seek allies where we have never thought to look before. We will make this work in our favor."
Tygett, ever the loyal and calculating Lannister, added with quiet resolve, "The game of thrones is not played with a sword alone. It is played with alliances, manipulation, and knowledge. We will have our answers."
Tywin gave a single, sharp nod, and in that moment, it was clear that the Lannisters were not done. They were not defeated. They were simply regrouping. And when they struck again, it would be with a ruthlessness and cunning that would make Hadrian Peverell regret ever crossing their path.
"Good," Tywin said, his voice low and cold once more. "Let us make sure Peverell understands that the Lannisters do not take defeat lightly."
As the conversation drifted into plans of action, the Lannister men, ever driven by ambition and blood, steeled themselves for the battle ahead. They had lost a skirmish, but the war was far from over. And for Tywin Lannister, the only option was to win. Whatever the cost.
—
The King's Chambers, heavy with the scent of old wine and the faint musk of rotting wood, seemed to close in on Robert Baratheon. The room was lit only by the flickering light of a few guttering candles, casting long shadows over the stone walls. Robert sat, slouched in his chair, the weight of a crown he had never truly desired pressing down upon him. His once-bulging frame had thinned with age and disillusionment, but his hands remained thick and calloused, the hands of a warrior who had never been destined to sit on a throne. His crown, now lopsided on his brow, seemed to mirror the disarray in his life and the kingdom he ruled.
The door creaked open with a heavy, deliberate sound, and Eddard Stark entered. The quiet power of the Lord of Winterfell was a stark contrast to the chaos of the King's chamber. His fur-lined cloak, long and flowing, swept behind him like a whisper in the dark. His somber face, framed by the shadows cast by his dark brows, held the quiet resolve that had seen him through wars and betrayals. He closed the door behind him, his heavy boots making no sound as he crossed the floor to the chair Robert had motioned to.
"Come in, Ned," Robert rumbled, his voice thick with fatigue and frustration. He waved a hand dismissively, though his gaze remained fixed on the man who had been his closest friend for years. "We need to talk about Peverell."
Ned, ever the stoic Northerner, nodded and settled into the chair across from Robert. His eyes, gray as the skies over Winterfell, met the King's with the gravity of a man who had seen more of the world than he had ever wished to.
Robert's hand tightened around the goblet of wine, his knuckles white with the tension of his thoughts. He took a swig, sloshing the drink in his mouth before spitting the remainder onto the floor. "Peverell," he growled, the name dripping with contempt. "That man... he shattered Gregor Clegane like he was made of nothing but glass. You saw it, Ned. The Mountain—our strongest weapon—taken down by one man. A man who wields powers I've never seen before. And now, I'm left wondering: Can we trust him?"
Ned's gaze hardened as he listened. He knew Robert's fears, knew the heart of the man who had once fought to take the throne from the Mad King. There was little that Robert feared more than losing his power, especially to someone who wasn't born with a claim. But Ned knew the truth of Peverell, and his loyalty to the man was absolute.
"Hadrian Peverell is no threat to you, Robert," Ned said firmly, his voice calm, but carrying the weight of years of friendship with the King. "He is a man of honor. His loyalty is to those he loves, not to power or ambition. He has fought for justice, not for conquest."
Robert scoffed, the sound bitter on his lips. "Honor?" He leaned back in his chair, his face creasing into a frown. "I've seen men with honor fall, Ned. And I've seen men who would do anything to hold on to power—men who were once nothing but commoners or wanderers. What if Peverell, with his power, decides he's entitled to the throne? He took down the Mountain as if it were nothing. If that's not ambition, then I don't know what is."
Ned shifted in his seat, his expression unchanged but his heart heavy with the unspoken truths between them. "Peverell has no interest in the throne. He seeks only peace for his family, protection for those who cannot protect themselves. He does not care for power, Robert."
There was a long pause, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the occasional clink of Robert's goblet as he drank deeply, the red wine staining his lips. Robert's brow furrowed deeply as he stared into the flames, his mind wrestling with the idea that a man so powerful might not be a threat after all. "I'll trust your judgment," Robert said at last, though there was hesitation in his voice, a faint trace of doubt that only old friends could hear. "But watch him, Ned. We can't afford to let our enemies slip through the cracks, not again. This realm is on the brink of chaos, and if Peverell is one of the pieces that can tip the scales..."
"I understand," Ned said quietly, his tone not harsh but resolute. "I will keep watch. But you have my word. He is not your enemy."
Robert stood, his bulk heaving under the weight of the crown. His face twisted in an expression of both weariness and a kind of resigned acceptance. "Good," he muttered, shoving the goblet aside. "Because I don't have time for more enemies. Too many have already taken their turn at trying to destroy me." His eyes were momentarily distant, haunted by years of conflict. "Now, we have to deal with the treason within our walls."
Ned's heart sank at the mention of Cersei. He had known this day was coming, had known that Robert's wrath would one day turn on his queen. But nothing could have prepared him for the weight of that conversation, for the choice he knew was coming. As Robert stood and began to pace, Ned's thoughts turned to the children—Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella—and the secret that weighed so heavily on his heart.
"You'll deal with Cersei," Ned said quietly, the words tasting of cold inevitability.
Robert paused, his face clouded with anger and sorrow. "Aye. I'll deal with her. We'll go to the Throne Room now. I will not let her think she can defy me, not anymore."
The two men walked in silence through the halls of the Red Keep, their footsteps echoing in the cold stone corridors. The shadows seemed to stretch long and dark ahead of them, as if the very castle itself knew the enormity of the decisions being made within its walls.
As they neared the Throne Room, Ned's thoughts were once again consumed by the secrets he held—secrets about Joffrey's true parentage, about the lies that had been fed to the realm. There were many things left unsaid between him and Robert, things that could shatter their friendship, their kingdom. But for now, Ned's duty was clear: to protect the realm, even if it meant losing everything he held dear.
The door to the Throne Room loomed ahead, the weight of its iron-bound frame a physical reminder of the power that had been built on betrayal, blood, and the crushing demands of rule. It was here that Robert's justice would be meted out. And it was here, in the darkness of their shared past, that Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon would face the final unraveling of the lies that had kept them bound together as friends.
—
The hour of passion had long passed, its fleeting moments now a distant echo in the halls of the Red Keep. Harry and Daenerys moved with a quiet resolve, their steps purposeful, as they approached the Throne Room. The weight of their task was heavy, but their resolve was ironclad. The realm had been forever altered in the last few days, and today would mark the beginning of something new—something born from fire, blood, and justice.
The Throne Room stood in stark contrast to its usual grandeur. The air was thick with tension, thick enough to taste. Lords, ladies, knights, and nobles from every corner of Westeros filled the vast chamber, their murmurs rising and falling like a restless sea. The faces of the gathered crowd were a mixture of curiosity, fear, and anticipation. Each person knew that the day's events would shift the balance of power, but none knew exactly how or in what direction.
At the far end of the room, Tywin Lannister stood as an unmoving pillar, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes swept over the gathering, calculating, cold, but betraying nothing. He was a man who had outlived his enemies and allies alike, a man who knew the cost of ambition. Today, his daughter would pay that price. His lips were thin, pressed tight as if he were clenching his thoughts as he watched the spectacle unfold before him.
And there, at the center of the room, stood Cersei Lannister—once the queen, once the unrivaled force in King's Landing—now reduced to a prisoner, shackled and bound. The chains that dug into her flesh were a brutal reminder of her fall from grace, her unyielding will the only thing left of the woman who once wore the crown. Her golden hair was now matted with sweat, her face streaked with dirt and tears, but her eyes—their defiance had not dulled. If anything, they burned hotter with every passing moment, a silent challenge to the kingdom that would soon judge her.
Daenerys, standing tall beside Harry, surveyed the scene with cool detachment. Her gaze moved slowly, assessing the gathered crowd, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was every bit the queen in this moment, her authority unquestionable, though her heart beat with a quiet fury that few could understand. As she glanced at Cersei, there was no pity, no remorse—only a cold sense of justice. The fire that burned inside her mirrored the dragons she commanded, fierce and unrelenting.
Harry, standing with his back straight and his expression somber, felt the weight of the moment as heavily as Daenerys. The victory over the Mountain had been one thing—but this, this was an entirely different kind of reckoning. The stench of fear and death hung in the air, but Harry's face was impassive, his blue eyes betraying nothing of the storm brewing inside him. He had killed before, fought for his life before—but today, it was a different kind of battle. This was the price of peace, and it was steep.
As the silence in the room stretched, it was broken only by the heavy footsteps of Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice, stepping forward. His face was a mask—stoic, unreadable, his expression not even remotely human. Every step echoed with the finality of what was to come. In his hand, he held the executioner's sword—its blade glowing a sinister red from the forge. It gleamed menacingly in the torchlight, a harbinger of the pain that was about to be inflicted.
Cersei lifted her head, her chin jutting forward defiantly as Payne approached. Her lips curled into a sneer, eyes flashing with venom. "Do it," she spat, the words laced with bitter contempt. "Do your worst, and let the world see what a true queen looks like when she is brought low."
There was a low murmur from the crowd—some fearful, some sympathetic, but all transfixed. Tywin Lannister's cold gaze never wavered from his daughter as he watched her defiance burn. He stood frozen, as if the events unfolding before him had long been anticipated, his mind already far beyond this final act. He could not afford to be anything but stoic, for to show weakness now would be a betrayal of his own legacy.
Ser Ilyn Payne's eyes never left Cersei as he moved forward, his hands steady as he forced her bound wrist onto the cold stone of the execution block. The sound of chains clinking against the stone echoed through the room, sharp and cold. The tension was unbearable as he lifted the hot blade high above his head, the heat from the forge sending a shiver through the air.
Cersei's defiance never faltered. She met Payne's gaze with one of her own—eyes full of venom and unrelenting pride. "End it," she hissed. "You are no more than a dog. Let the world remember this moment. Remember it." Her voice wavered for a brief second, but she quickly regained her composure.
With a savage swing, the sword descended.
The sickening sound of bone splitting, flesh searing, and flesh burning filled the room in an instant. A collective gasp echoed through the chamber as Cersei let out a bone-chilling scream, her voice raw and primal. The blade cleaved through her wrist like a hot knife through butter, and the severed hand fell to the floor with a wet thud, the smell of burned flesh sharp and acrid in the air. The room filled with the sound of her ragged breath, the pain unmistakable in her wide, horrified eyes as she collapsed to her knees.
Her body trembled violently, the chains rattling as she fought to stay upright, but her strength was gone. Blood poured from the stump of her wrist, mingling with the burned, cauterized flesh, and her eyes filled with shock, betrayal, and raw agony. Her breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, her chest rising and falling violently as she struggled to remain conscious.
"I am the queen," Cersei managed to choke out between gasps, her voice thick with pain. "I am... the queen."
Her words faltered, her eyes beginning to glaze over in shock as the realization of her fate set in.
The crowd—who had once whispered of her cruelty and power—stood silent, some with their hands to their mouths in shock, others with their eyes wide, unable to look away. A few nobles recoiled in horror, their faces pale with the gruesome sight before them. It was a moment of reckoning, one that could not be undone.
Tywin Lannister did not flinch. His face was a mask of stone, his gaze steady and cold as he observed his daughter's fall. The quiet rage in his eyes was not directed at the execution, but at the fact that his bloodline had come to this. He had built an empire on cruelty, and now, his blood was the one to bear its cost. A cruel twist of fate.
Jon Snow, standing near the back, felt a chill run down his spine. He had never liked Cersei—not for her cruelty, nor her self-righteousness—but seeing her reduced like this felt hollow, even for someone as hardened as he. He exchanged a glance with Daenerys, his eyes briefly locking with hers in silent understanding. This wasn't just about power or vengeance—it was about breaking the cycle. There could be no peace without the end of the old order.
Robert Baratheon, his massive form looming over the gathered lords and ladies, finally spoke, his voice booming through the chamber. "Justice has been served," he declared, his voice carrying a weight that reverberated through the room. His eyes flicked from Cersei's mangled form to Harry, his expression softening slightly, though his words held firm authority. "Let it be known—no one, not even a Lannister, is above the law."
The lords and ladies of Westeros began to stir, murmurs rising in the aftermath of the execution. There was a ripple of approval among some, a chilling silence among others. The justice was harsh, brutal, but it was needed.
"Tonight, we feast," Robert continued, raising his voice as he turned to Harry. "In honor of Lord Peverell. You did well. The Mountain is dead, and so is the poison that plagued us all."
A hesitant round of applause filled the room, though it was tempered by the grimness of what they had just witnessed. The taste of victory was bitter in their mouths, but it was victory nonetheless.
As the crowd began to disperse, the tension in the room seemed to lift, but for Harry and Dany, it was only the beginning. The battle for the realm had just begun, and as they moved through the sea of nobles, their eyes met in quiet understanding. They had won this fight, but there would be many more to come. They would rebuild the realm, but at what cost?
The old order had been broken—now came the hard part: building a kingdom from the ashes.
—
In the lavish chambers of Prince Joffrey Baratheon, chaos reigned. The opulent room, once a testament to his family's power and his own supposed greatness, now lay in ruins—furniture overturned, rich tapestries torn, fine porcelain shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. The scent of crushed flowers lingered in the air, but it wasn't enough to mask the acidic bitterness that churned in the pit of Joffrey's stomach.
Joffrey paced back and forth, his face flushed crimson, his breaths shallow and rapid, as if he were on the verge of some violent, fevered seizure. His golden curls, usually so perfectly styled, now hung in messy, tangled clumps around his face. His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, the veins in his arms bulging with the effort to hold himself back. But it was a futile effort. Fury bubbled just beneath the surface, and it demanded release.
With a guttural snarl, Joffrey reached out and upended a small table with a single swipe of his arm. The table crashed to the floor with a resounding bang, sending an ornate vase—a beautiful thing, crafted from the finest porcelain—tumbling to the ground. It shattered with a deafening crack, scattering shards of broken ceramic across the floor. The sharp, jagged pieces glittered in the dim light, but the destruction did nothing to quell the raging storm inside him. It was as if his own ego had splintered with the vase, and now, in the mess, there was nothing but an aching, gnawing sense of impotence.
His mother's disgrace. Her punishment. The severed hand. The cold, indifferent faces in the crowd. He could still hear the echo of their murmurs in his ears, feel the cruel sting of their laughter, as they watched her fall. And with her, he, too, had fallen. A prince. No, the prince—the future king, and yet he stood powerless in the face of it all.
With a strangled growl, Joffrey stormed across the room, his boots thudding heavily against the floor. He was like a wild animal, trapped in a gilded cage, his fury escalating by the second. His mind raced, twisted in a vortex of resentment, jealousy, and rage. How dare they? How dare anyone lay a hand on her? How dare they mock him, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne? He was the future, the power of Westeros, and yet the very throne he was destined to rule mocked him at every turn.
Another knock sounded at the door, soft and tentative, as though the world outside was afraid to disturb the storm inside. But Joffrey heard it, and the sound only seemed to ignite his anger further.
"Go away!" he screamed, his voice high-pitched and sharp, like a whip crack in the stillness of the room.
But the knock came again, insistent, though still apologetic.
"What the hell is so important?" Joffrey spat, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I swear, if it's another damned servant—"
The door creaked open just a sliver, and a servant—frail, nervous, and clearly terrified—stepped into the room, eyes lowered to the floor. "Your Grace," the servant began, their voice barely a whisper, "the punishment... it has been carried out."
Joffrey froze, his body going rigid at the words. Carried out. The phrase hit him like a slap in the face. His mother's punishment. His mother's punishment. His teeth ground together as he felt the burn of humiliation crawling beneath his skin. He could taste the bitterness of it, like ash in the back of his throat.
Before the servant could even finish, Joffrey's fury exploded. His hand shot out with lightning speed, and without thought, he snatched a knife from the table beside him. He didn't care what it was—an ornate, useless decoration, but it was a weapon now, a tool for his rage. With a feral scream, he hurled it across the room with all his might. The blade sailed through the air, its sharp edge cutting the space between them, and embedded itself with a dull, satisfying thud into the wooden door frame, mere inches from the servant's face.
The servant flinched, their entire body going rigid, eyes wide with terror. For a moment, time seemed to slow as the knife lodged into the wood. The servant stood frozen, not daring to breathe, not daring to move. Their chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, their face pale, their hands trembling at their sides.
Joffrey's lips curled into a sneer, twisting his features into something almost unrecognizable. His eyes were wild, blazing with the manic intensity of a predator cornered. "Do you know what you've just done?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "You dare to disturb me, now?" His voice rose in pitch, cracking with barely contained fury.
The servant stammered, "I-I-I meant no disrespect, Your Grace. I was only... delivering the message."
"Message?" Joffrey spat, his voice growing shrill. "The message is clear: it is done, and I'm still stuck here with you, a bunch of sniveling cowards—and now you come in here like some useless dog to tell me that?" His voice cracked with the weight of his frustration. He paced in a tight circle, his hands shaking with anger as they clenched and unclenched by his sides.
The servant shrank back, not daring to move. The room felt suffocating with the tension, and the air was thick with fear.
"Get out," Joffrey shrieked suddenly, his voice high and almost guttural. The words felt like they ripped from his chest, each syllable dripping with venom. "Get out, before I decide to aim better next time."
Without waiting for any further response, the servant bolted for the door, stumbling over their own feet in their haste. The door slammed behind them with a violent force, leaving Joffrey standing in the center of the room, chest heaving with anger, eyes wide and burning with resentment.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence. The kind of silence that weighed heavy in the room, the kind that echoed with a hollow emptiness.
Joffrey stood there, trembling, his heart pounding in his chest. He was a prince, but at that moment, he felt like nothing more than a child trapped in a nightmare of his own making. The reality of his situation gnawed at him like a rat chewing at his insides. His mother had fallen. The throne, the crown, everything he thought he was entitled to—gone. And for what? What had he done? He had taken what was rightfully his, hadn't he? He had forced his way into the throne room and claimed his birthright.
But now, all he was left with was the bitterness of failure.
He glanced around the room, his eyes catching the remnants of the shattered vase on the floor. The broken pieces glinted up at him like mocking eyes, a reminder that nothing in this world would ever truly bend to his will. His hands clenched into fists again, but this time, there was no fury left. Only the empty ache of impotent rage.
She had been his. Everything had been his. And now it was all gone.
"Damn it," he muttered, his voice low and broken. "Damn them all."
And so, in the silence of his shattered room, Joffrey Baratheon stood alone, drowning in the weight of his own failure.
—
Cersei Lannister lay propped on the litter, the jarring motion of the palanquin sending fresh waves of agony coursing through her body, but it was the pain inside her that truly gnawed at her. Her severed hand throbbed, but it was the rancid, festering wound in her pride that consumed her every thought. The searing humiliation of public exposure—her hand cut off like some lowborn's punishment—had left her raw. But it was far from over. The bitter, savage fire of revenge burned hotter with each passing moment, and the faces of the Peverells swam in her thoughts.
Hadrian Peverell, that insolent, overconfident fool who had dared to rise against her. Fleur, his lovely, delicate wife, who thought she could stand above Cersei's wrath. They would learn, oh, they would learn the price of defying her.
Her lips twisted into a cruel smile, and she imagined them, both of them, broken and naked before her. She could almost hear their screams in her ears, their cries for mercy. But there would be no mercy.
Fleur. That sweet, naive woman. Cersei's mind drowned in the most vile, cruel fantasies, each one more depraved than the last. She pictured Fleur, beautiful and proud, but stripped and paraded through the streets. She would be exposed in every possible way—every inch of her dignity torn away, every secret laid bare before the jeering, leering crowd. They'll see every curve of her body, Cersei thought, and they'll mock her for it. They'll taunt her beauty like it's a disease to be scorned.
She imagined her, broken, stumbling through the streets, chained, her cries drowned out by the laughter of those who once admired her. Naked, exposed, every eye on her, every whisper about her. The thought of Fleur's once-glamorous life reduced to a streetwalker's humiliation sent a shiver of sick satisfaction down her spine. "She will dance," Cersei whispered, her voice a low hiss. "She will dance for them, every step a mockery of her former grace."
She could almost hear the whispers of the crowd, the sound of the chains, the heavy breath of the woman as she struggled to keep composure. How long will it take her to break? Cersei wondered. One hour? Two? Will she beg for the crowds to take her life? Will she beg for mercy?
Then her mind twisted even further, digging deeper into the depravity. She saw Fleur in a cage, stripped of all humanity, forced to perform for the amusement of her tormentors. Fleur would bend, she would break, she would become nothing. Cersei imagined her, crying, begging for the end, as she was made to perform the most disgusting, degrading acts before the eyes of all. The thought of Fleur's beauty tainted, twisted, destroyed, filled Cersei with a rush of pleasure, like a drug coursing through her veins. "She'll be nothing but a whore for the court," she whispered to herself. "Fleur, a broken, naked fool—forced to sell herself for their amusement."
Hadrian. The thought of him brought a cruel laugh to her lips. He won't be spared. Cersei saw him, bound and helpless before her, stripped of his strength and dignity. He would watch, helpless, as his beloved Fleur was torn apart before him, his face twisted with rage and humiliation as he was forced to endure her suffering. I'll make him watch, she thought, savoring the image. I'll make him see everything she becomes. I'll force him to witness her degradation, to hear her screams, to feel her humiliation in his very soul.
And that was just the beginning. In the most vile corners of her imagination, Cersei saw herself parading him through the court, naked, exposed, his once-proud body turned into a spectacle of shame. He'll beg for his life, she thought, but I'll show him no mercy. Her mind spun, creating more scenarios, each more grotesque than the last. "He will kneel," she whispered, "begging for me to stop, but I won't stop. I will strip him of every ounce of his pride."
Her thoughts twisted further. Her fantasy became even darker, and she saw herself orchestrating the most vile, sexual humiliation. I'll have them both broken in every possible way, she thought. I'll make them submit to everything they despise. I'll make them feel every inch of their disgrace until there is nothing left of them.
Cersei let out a soft, cruel laugh as she envisioned them—naked, exposed, forced to fuck in front of the court—their every private moment violated, ripped from them, displayed for the amusement of all. The very idea of it filled her with a savage joy, a sense of power unlike anything she had ever felt. "Their suffering will be my reward," she murmured, her voice thick with venom. And they will never forget what I did to them.
"They think they've won," Cersei hissed under her breath, her teeth bared as if she could taste the blood of her enemies. "They have no idea what I have planned. They will wish for death. But I will not grant it. I will keep them alive, make them suffer for every last moment of their pitiful, pathetic existence."
As the litter came to a stop, the Grand Maester's chambers looming before her, Cersei's resolve hardened. No one crosses Cersei Lannister and lives to tell the tale. The Peverells thought they could humiliate her, break her. They had no idea how deep her cruelty ran. When she was done with them, their names would be whispered in fear, a cautionary tale of what happens when you dare to cross the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
"They will begin for mercy," she thought, her eyes narrowed with hate. "And I will make sure they never receive it."
---
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Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!