AN: My longest chapter everrrrr. (7.6k words!) I had fun writing Cersei's POV. I would often compare Cersei with Saera Targaryen. They're both clever, yes. But not wise. There's a difference. I plan a good character development for her.
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CERSEI
The journey from Casterly Rock to King's Landing had taken nearly three weeks, traveling by the Gold Road with an escort befitting the daughter of the Hand of the King. Each night as they drew closer to the capital, Cersei Lannister had found it harder to sleep, her mind filled with visions of the royal court, of the Targaryen princes, and most particularly, of her future as queen.
For it was to be her destiny—her father had made that abundantly clear. She was a lioness of the Rock, the golden daughter of the most powerful house in the Seven Kingdoms, and she would wear a crown. Whether that crown came through marriage to Prince Rhaegar or Prince Thalor remained to be determined, but the end result was never in question: Cersei Lannister would be queen.
Now, as their party passed through the Dragon Gate into King's Landing, the reality of it all began to crystallize. The city sprawled before them, larger and more densely packed than Lannisport, its streets teeming with people from every corner of the realm. And rising above it all, perched atop Aegon's High Hill, stood the Red Keep—a massive fortress of pale red stone that would be her home for the foreseeable future.
"Remember what we discussed," Lord Tywin Lannister said from atop his magnificent white courser, not bothering to look at his daughter as he spoke. "You are here to observe, to learn, and to make favorable impressions. Not just on the princes, but on the queen, the court ladies, the Small Council members. Everyone of consequence."
"I understand, Father," Cersei replied, sitting straight-backed on her own palfrey. At ten years old, she was already a skilled rider, and her posture remained perfect despite the weariness of travel. Her golden hair had been carefully arranged that morning by her handmaiden, and she wore a gown of deep crimson with subtle gold embroidery—Lannister colors that complemented her fair skin and emerald eyes.
"The court will be gathered for a feast tonight to welcome us," Tywin continued. "You will be seated near the royal family. You will be gracious, attentive, and measured in your speech. You will—"
"I will conduct myself as befits a daughter of House Lannister," Cersei finished for him, a touch of impatience creeping into her voice despite her best efforts. She had heard these instructions a hundred times during their journey.
Tywin's sharp gaze fell on her then, his green-gold eyes—so like her own—narrowing slightly at the interruption. "See that you do," he said, his tone making it clear that further discussion was unnecessary.
As their procession made its way through the winding streets of the capital, Cersei found herself scanning the skies almost involuntarily. Would she see him today? The black dragon and his princely rider? Stories of Nightfury had reached even the halls of Casterly Rock—tales of intelligence beyond any dragon in history, of precision flying that defied belief, of a bond between beast and master that seemed more partnership than ownership.
But the skies above King's Landing remained empty save for the circling gulls, and Cersei's attention was soon drawn back to the approaching Red Keep as they began the ascent up Aegon's High Hill.
Guards in Targaryen colors flanked the main gates, standing at attention as the Lannister party passed through. In the outer courtyard, a welcome party awaited—not the king or queen, of course, but a suitably high-ranking assemblage of courtiers and household knights. Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped forward as they dismounted.
"Lord Hand," he greeted Tywin formally. "King's Landing welcomes your return. His Grace awaits you in the Small Council chamber at your convenience."
Tywin nodded, unsurprised by the immediate summons. "I shall attend him directly, after seeing my daughter properly settled." He gestured to Cersei, who stepped forward and curtseyed with practiced grace.
Ser Gerold's stern features softened slightly as he turned to her. "Lady Cersei, welcome to the Red Keep. Queen Rhaella has assigned chambers for you in Maegor's Holdfast, near the other noble ladies of the court. Her Grace will receive you for tea before the evening's feast."
Cersei brightened at this news. A private audience with the queen was an honor she hadn't anticipated so quickly, and it spoke to her father's influence at court despite the increasing tensions with King Aerys that she had overheard mentioned in hushed tones at Casterly Rock.
"I am honored by Her Grace's invitation," she replied, the perfect courtly response falling easily from her lips.
As servants moved forward to handle their baggage, and Tywin spoke briefly with his steward about logistical matters, Cersei allowed her gaze to wander over the Red Keep's imposing structure. Her eyes were drawn to a tower in the northeastern corner—partially ruined at its top, yet showing signs of recent renovation. Unlike the rest of the keep, this tower featured unusual modifications: what appeared to be a rotating roof section, elaborate pulley systems visible on its exterior, and most intriguingly, a sleek black shape sunning itself on a platform near the damaged peak.
Her heart quickened. There, basking in the afternoon sunlight like some enormous cat, lay Nightfury—the only living dragon in the known world. Even at this distance, Cersei could tell the creature was magnificent, its midnight scales gleaming with an almost metallic luster.
"The Broken Tower," Ser Gerold remarked, following her gaze. "Prince Thalor's workshop. He and Nightfury spend most of their days there when not training or attending to official duties."
"Workshop?" Cersei couldn't help but ask, curiosity overcoming her carefully practiced restraint.
A hint of amusement crossed the Lord Commander's weathered face. "The prince is quite the inventor. The tower houses his forge, his drafting tables, his laboratory. Half the craftsmen in King's Landing have contributed to his projects at one time or another."
This was unexpected information. The stories that reached Casterly Rock had focused primarily on Thalor's bond with Nightfury, on their aerial feats and the occasional heroic intervention like the incident at Crackclaw Point. Little had been said of inventions or workshops.
"What sort of things does he make?" she asked, genuinely intrigued.
"All manner of devices," Ser Gerold replied. "Mechanical contraptions, improved weapons, architectural innovations. The new sewage system that's being installed throughout the lower city was his design—quite revolutionary, they say. Cleaner water, less disease."
Cersei struggled to reconcile this image—a prince preoccupied with sewage systems and mechanical devices—with the heroic dragon rider she had imagined. It seemed disappointingly... common. Practical. Not at all the stuff of songs and legends she had anticipated.
Her momentary disappointment must have shown on her face, for Ser Gerold added, "Don't mistake the prince's practical interests for ordinary concerns, Lady Cersei. When you see him fly with Nightfury, you'll understand why the smallfolk call him the Dragon Prince. There's nothing common about Prince Thalor Targaryen."
Before she could inquire further, her father returned to her side. "You will be escorted to your chambers now," he informed her. "Rest, prepare yourself for your audience with the queen, and remember—"
"I know, Father," Cersei interrupted, then immediately regretted her haste as his expression hardened. "I will make House Lannister proud," she added more respectfully.
Tywin studied her for a moment, then nodded curtly. "See that you do." With that, he turned and followed Ser Gerold toward the Small Council chamber, leaving Cersei in the care of the ladies-in-waiting who had appeared to escort her to her new quarters.
As she followed them into the main keep, Cersei cast one last glance back at the Broken Tower. Nightfury had risen to his feet and now stretched his wings wide—an impressive span that seemed to catch the sunlight like black silk. The dragon's movements were sinuous, graceful, utterly unlike the lumbering beasts depicted in the tapestries at Casterly Rock. There was something almost beautiful about the creature, something that stirred an unexpected longing in Cersei's heart.
Someday, she promised herself, she would ride such a beast. Whether through marriage to Thalor or by some other means, she would know what it was to soar above the world, looking down on everyone and everything from heights only Targaryens had known.
A queen with a dragon would be unstoppable.
---
The Queen's Ballroom in Maegor's Holdfast was an intimate space compared to the cavernous Great Hall where feasts and formal court functions were held. Elegant and feminine in its appointments, with delicate tapestries adorning the walls and fresh flowers scenting the air, it provided the perfect setting for Queen Rhaella to receive selected ladies of the court for private conversations.
Cersei, freshly bathed and dressed in her finest gown of gold samite with crimson accents, was escorted there precisely at the appointed hour. She had spent the intervening time being briefed by her handmaidens on the current dynamics of the ladies at court—who had the queen's favor, which alliances and rivalries existed among the noble houses currently represented, and most importantly, how Cersei should comport herself to make the best possible impression.
A steward announced her at the door, and Cersei glided into the chamber with measured steps, neither too hurried nor too hesitant. Queen Rhaella sat in a comfortable chair near the windows, afternoon light illuminating her delicate Targaryen beauty. At thirty-four, she remained lovely despite the strain of difficult pregnancies and the increasingly well-known challenges of her marriage to King Aerys.
"Lady Cersei," the queen greeted her with a gentle smile. "Welcome to King's Landing. Please, join me."
Cersei curtseyed deeply, head bowed in perfect deference. "Your Grace, I am honored by your invitation."
"Come, sit," Rhaella gestured to a chair opposite her own. A small table between them held a silver tea service and delicate cakes. "You must be weary after your journey from Casterly Rock."
"The road was long, Your Grace, but anticipation made it seem shorter," Cersei replied diplomatically as she took her seat, arranging her skirts with practiced grace.
The queen's violet eyes—kind but observant—studied her thoughtfully. "Anticipation, indeed. I imagine a girl of ten finds the prospect of court life quite exciting after the relative quiet of the Rock."
"I have looked forward to serving Your Grace and making the acquaintance of the royal family," Cersei confirmed, accepting a cup of tea from the queen herself—a gesture of favor not lost on her.
"You're very like your mother," Rhaella observed unexpectedly, a shadow of sadness crossing her features. "Joanna and I were close, you know, before our marriages took us on different paths. She had your coloring, your composure, though perhaps not quite your ambition."
Cersei nearly choked on her tea at this last observation, delivered so casually yet with such perception. The queen smiled gently at her reaction.
"Come now, child. We both know why you're here. Your father is not a man who acts without purpose, and bringing his golden daughter to court at such a young age speaks to specific intentions." Rhaella's tone held no accusation, merely a practical acceptance of political reality.
Unsure how to respond to such directness, Cersei opted for honesty—or at least, a version of it. "My father wishes me to learn the ways of court from the finest example possible—Your Grace—and to forge relationships that will serve House Lannister well in the future."
"A diplomatic answer," Rhaella approved. "And not untrue, as far as it goes." She sipped her tea thoughtfully. "I shall be plain with you, Lady Cersei, as I was fond of your mother. The court you have entered is more complex and more dangerous than the songs and stories suggest. King's Landing has always been a nest of vipers, but in recent years..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Let us say that the balance of power shifts with the king's moods, and those moods have grown... unpredictable."
Cersei absorbed this confirmation of rumors she had overheard at Casterly Rock. The queen's willingness to speak so frankly suggested either great trust or great desperation—or perhaps simply a desire to protect a young girl she associated with a friend long lost.
"I understand, Your Grace," Cersei said softly. "I will tread carefully."
"See that you do." Rhaella's tone echoed Lord Tywin's earlier admonition so precisely that Cersei nearly smiled despite the seriousness of the conversation. "Now, I imagine you have questions about the royal princes. Girls your age usually do, especially when they arrive with... expectations."
Again, that perception that seemed to cut through pretense. Cersei hesitated, then decided that continued honesty—strategic honesty—was her best approach with this surprisingly direct queen.
"I have heard many stories of Prince Rhaegar's accomplishments, his skill with harp and sword," she acknowledged. "And more recently, tales of Prince Thalor and his dragon have reached even Casterly Rock."
"Ah, yes. My sons." A genuine warmth entered Rhaella's voice. "Rhaegar, so serious and scholarly. He bears the weight of his position with a grace beyond his years. And Thalor..." A different quality entered her tone—pride mixed with something like wonder. "Thalor is... unique. I suspect the songs and stories have not captured the half of him."
"Ser Gerold mentioned a workshop," Cersei ventured. "He said the prince is an inventor."
Rhaella smiled. "Among many other things, yes. Thalor's mind works differently from most—always has, even as a small child. He sees possibilities others miss, connections others overlook." She glanced out the window, where the top of the Broken Tower was just visible. "That old tower has become quite the marvel under his direction. On quiet nights, you can sometimes hear the sounds of metalwork carrying across the courtyards, long after most of the castle sleeps."
Cersei tried to imagine a Targaryen prince—with his silver-gold hair and royal blood—working a forge like a common blacksmith. The image was jarring, incongruous with everything she had been taught about the dignity and remove of royalty.
"You find it strange," the queen observed, reading her expression. "A prince with callused hands, who works alongside craftsmen rather than merely commanding them."
"I..." Cersei hesitated, not wanting to seem judgmental.
"It's alright," Rhaella assured her. "Most do, at first. But there is method to Thalor's unusual approach. The loyalty he has earned among the guild masters and skilled laborers of King's Landing has proven more valuable than gold in implementing his projects. And those projects, practical as they may seem, have improved countless lives." A hint of steel entered her voice. "Never underestimate the power of genuine gratitude from the smallfolk, Lady Cersei. Crowns are kept with more than just swords."
It was a perspective Cersei had never considered. Her father had always emphasized power, wealth, and strategic alliances in his lessons on rulership—never the goodwill of common people.
"I understand you will be seated near Prince Thalor at tonight's feast," Rhaella continued, changing the subject. "He's recently returned from supervising the sewage system installation in the lower city, so you'll have to forgive him if he speaks of pipe fittings and water flow with more enthusiasm than court gossip."
Despite herself, Cersei couldn't suppress a small grimace at the thought of spending an entire feast discussing sewage. The queen laughed lightly at her expression.
"Don't worry, my dear. For all his practical interests, Thalor was raised at court and knows how to conduct himself appropriately. And you might find his conversation more engaging than you expect. Behind the inventor lies a keen political mind and a surprisingly comprehensive knowledge of the Seven Kingdoms."
Before Cersei could respond, the door to the ballroom opened to admit a young boy of about six, with the silver-gold hair and purple eyes of House Targaryen.
"Mother, I—" He stopped short upon seeing Cersei, immediately straightening his posture and offering a formal bow. "Forgive my interruption, Your Grace."
"Prince Viserys," Rhaella introduced him, her expression softening with maternal affection. "My youngest son. Viserys, this is Lady Cersei Lannister, daughter of the Hand."
Cersei rose and curtseyed properly to the young prince. "It's an honor to meet you, Your Highness."
Viserys studied her with undisguised curiosity. "You're very pretty," he declared with childish directness. "Are you going to marry Rhaegar? The court ladies say someone must, soon."
"Viserys!" Rhaella admonished, though a smile played at her lips. "That is hardly an appropriate question."
Cersei felt heat rise to her cheeks but maintained her composure. "I am simply honored to serve the royal family in whatever capacity is deemed appropriate, Your Highness," she replied diplomatically.
Viserys seemed to accept this non-answer with a shrug. "Mother, I came to tell you that Thalor and Nightfury have returned. They're landing in the outer yard now."
"Ah," Rhaella set down her teacup. "Perfect timing. Lady Cersei, would you care to accompany us? It seems an excellent opportunity for you to meet my middle son before the formality of tonight's feast."
Cersei's heart leapt at the opportunity. "I would be honored, Your Grace."
As they followed Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast and across the drawbridge to the main courtyard, Cersei worked to calm her racing pulse. This was her first test—her first opportunity to make an impression on one of the Targaryen princes. That it was Thalor rather than Rhaegar was unexpected, but perhaps fortuitous. Her father had stressed the importance of assessing both princes equally, and this private introduction would give her insights beyond what a formal feast might allow.
They reached the outer courtyard just as a dark shape swooped low over the Red Keep's walls, circling once before descending with surprising grace for a creature of its size. Nightfury was larger than Cersei had expected—the size of a large warhorse, with a wingspan that seemed to block out the sun as he glided to a landing.
And astride the dragon, secured in what appeared to be an intricately designed saddle of leather and metal, sat Prince Thalor Targaryen.
From her position at Queen Rhaella's side, Cersei had an excellent view as dragon and rider touched down in the center of the courtyard, which had been hastily cleared by guards. Servants and courtiers lingered at the edges, watching with awe and familiarity that suggested such landings were unusual enough to draw attention, yet common enough to have established protocols.
Prince Thalor dismounted with practiced ease, his movements fluid and confident. At nine years old, he was not quite as tall as his older brother Rhaegar had been at the same age, but he carried himself with a similar grace. His silver-gold hair was tied back from his face with a leather cord, and he wore practical riding leathers rather than formal court attire. A smudge of what appeared to be soot or dirt marked one cheek, making him look more like a squire who had been training in the yards than a royal prince.
But it was his eyes that caught and held Cersei's attention as he approached his mother and brother. Green—a vibrant emerald green entirely unlike the traditional Targaryen violet—and holding a depth and intelligence that seemed at odds with his youth. Eyes that matched his dragon's exactly, in both color and that unsettling sense of ancient knowledge.
"Mother," Thalor greeted Queen Rhaella warmly, bowing with respect but embracing her with genuine affection. "You're looking well today."
"And you're looking like you've been crawling through drainage ditches again," Rhaella replied with fond exasperation, using a handkerchief to wipe the smudge from his cheek. "We have guests, Thalor."
The prince turned his attention to Cersei, those remarkable green eyes assessing her with an intensity that made her feel as though he could see through the carefully constructed facade of the perfect lady to the ambitions and calculations beneath.
"Lady Cersei Lannister," he said, surprising her by identifying her without introduction. "You've arrived earlier than expected. I trust your journey from Casterly Rock was pleasant?"
Cersei curtseyed formally, grateful for the countless hours of practice that allowed her to perform the motion with perfect grace despite her suddenly dry mouth and racing heart. "It was, Your Highness. The weather favored us."
"Fortunate," Thalor replied. "The Gold Road can be treacherous when it rains." He glanced skyward, then back to her. "You're attending the feast tonight, I assume?"
"She's seated beside you," Queen Rhaella informed him. "So do make an effort to wash thoroughly before then, my son."
Thalor's lips quirked in amusement. "Of course, Mother. I wouldn't dare subject Lady Cersei to the full aroma of the day's work." He turned back to Cersei, his expression shifting to something more formal, more princely. "I look forward to our conversation this evening, my lady. You'll have to forgive my appearance now—Nightfury and I have been assisting with some challenging aspects of the sewage installation in the River Row district."
Behind him, the dragon made a sound that Cersei could have sworn was amusement. Nightfury's intelligent green eyes briefly met hers, and the young lioness found herself fighting the urge to step back. There was something unnervingly knowing in that gaze—a sentience beyond what any beast should possess.
"Nightfury," Thalor said, turning slightly, "may I present Lady Cersei Lannister, daughter of our father's Hand."
To Cersei's shock, the dragon dipped its head in what could only be described as a bow—a deliberate, controlled motion that mimicked the courtly gesture with uncanny precision.
"He... he understands you," she said, unable to keep the wonder from her voice.
"Completely," Thalor confirmed matter-of-factly. "Nightfury comprehends human speech as well as you or I. His intelligence is one of many ways he differs from the dragons of old."
Viserys, who had been watching the exchange with the impatience of a six-year-old, tugged at his brother's sleeve. "Did you bring me anything from the city?" he asked hopefully.
Thalor smiled, reaching into a pouch at his belt. "As a matter of fact, I did." He produced a small mechanical device—a dragon crafted of brass with articulated wings that moved when a tiny lever was turned. "Master Lario finished it yesterday. If you wind this spring here, the wings will flap ten times before needing to be rewound."
Viserys's face lit up as he accepted the gift, immediately testing the mechanism with delight. Watching the interaction, Cersei was struck by the easy warmth between the brothers—so different from her own complicated relationship with Jaime, and their mutual torment of young Tyrion.
"It's wonderful, Thalor!" Viserys exclaimed. "Does it breathe fire too?"
"Not yet," Thalor replied with a wink. "That'll be the next version, perhaps."
Queen Rhaella watched her sons with evident affection. "Viserys, why don't you show Lady Cersei your collection of mechanical creatures? I need a moment with your brother."
Recognizing the dismissal, Cersei curtseyed again to the queen and prince. "It was an honor to meet you, Prince Thalor. I look forward to our conversation this evening."
"Likewise, Lady Cersei," he replied, and though his tone was perfectly courteous, she couldn't shake the feeling that those green eyes saw far more than she intended to reveal.
As she followed the enthusiastic Prince Viserys back toward Maegor's Holdfast, Cersei glanced back once to see Thalor and Queen Rhaella engaged in serious conversation, Nightfury's sleek head lowered to their level as if participating in the discussion.
A strange introduction, she reflected—nothing like the songs and stories she had imagined. This dragon prince with his practical interests, his smudged face, and his uncanny eyes was a far cry from the romantic vision of Targaryen royalty she had constructed in her mind.
And yet, there was something compelling about him—about the easy authority he projected despite his youth, about the obvious intelligence and purpose that drove him. He was not conventionally charming like the stories she'd heard of Rhaegar, but there was a quiet intensity to Thalor Targaryen that stirred her curiosity.
By the time she reached her chambers to prepare for the evening's feast, Cersei had revised her initial disappointment. Prince Thalor might not be what she had expected, but he was far from uninteresting. And the bond he shared with Nightfury—the only living dragon in the world—was a source of power that could not be underestimated.
Her father had instructed her to assess both princes carefully, to determine which alliance would best serve House Lannister's interests. She had assumed that Rhaegar, as the crown prince and heir, would naturally be the superior match.
Now, she wasn't so certain.
As her handmaidens helped her dress for the feast, arranging her golden hair in an elaborate style better suited to a woman grown than a girl of ten, Cersei found herself curiously eager for the evening ahead. What would conversation with Prince Thalor reveal? What insights might she gain into the dynamics of House Targaryen, into the future of the realm, into the possibilities for her own ambitions?
For the first time since arriving at King's Landing, Cersei felt a stirring of genuine interest beyond mere political calculation. The Dragon Prince was a puzzle worth solving, a potential ally or husband whose value might extend beyond simple status.
And Cersei Lannister had always excelled at solving puzzles, particularly when they led to power.
---
The Great Hall of the Red Keep blazed with hundreds of candles, their light reflecting off the polished surfaces of Targaryen banners and gilt furnishings. The long tables had been arranged in a U-shape, with the royal family seated at the high table that formed the base. Lords and ladies of the court filled the side tables according to rank and favor, with those closest to the high table enjoying the most prestigious positions.
True to Queen Rhaella's word, Cersei found herself seated beside Prince Thalor, with Lord Staunton's daughter on her other side. Across from them sat Prince Rhaegar, flanked by two daughters of prominent Crownlands houses. The king and queen occupied the center of the high table, with Lord Tywin at the king's right hand—a position of honor that nonetheless placed him directly under the mercurial monarch's unpredictable attention.
As the first course was served—a delicate seafood soup flavored with saffron—Cersei took the opportunity to properly observe Prince Rhaegar up close for the first time. At fourteen, he was already strikingly handsome, with the classic Targaryen beauty enhanced by an air of melancholy that seemed to draw the eye of every maiden in the hall. His silver-gold hair fell loose to his shoulders, and his violet eyes held a thoughtful, distant quality as he responded politely but minimally to the young ladies attempting to engage him in conversation.
He was, Cersei decided, every bit as appealing as the songs suggested—a prince from legend, beautiful and remote and somehow tragic despite his youth and privilege. It was easy to imagine him as king, easy to envision herself at his side as his queen.
"He's not particularly enjoying himself," a voice murmured beside her, drawing Cersei's attention back to her immediate dining companion.
Prince Thalor had followed her gaze to his brother, a knowing half-smile playing at his lips. Gone were the riding leathers and windswept appearance from earlier; he was now properly attired in Targaryen black and red, his silver-gold hair neatly arranged. Only those remarkable green eyes remained unchanged—still observant, still unsettlingly perceptive.
"I'm simply observing the court, Your Highness," Cersei replied smoothly. "It's all quite new to me."
"Of course," Thalor agreed, his tone making it clear he recognized her deflection for what it was. "And my brother makes an interesting subject for observation. Most find him so."
There was no jealousy in his statement, merely a factual acknowledgment of Rhaegar's appeal. Cersei took a careful sip of her soup before responding.
"The crown prince seems very... dignified," she offered, choosing her words with care.
Thalor chuckled. "That's a diplomatic way of putting it. 'Reserved' might be another term. 'Brooding,' if you were being less charitable." His green eyes sparkled with genuine amusement. "Rhaegar takes his position seriously—perhaps too seriously at times. The weight of the future rests heavily on his shoulders."
It was a surprisingly candid assessment, and Cersei wasn't entirely sure how to respond. Court protocol dictated extreme caution when discussing members of the royal family, particularly with other royals who might take offense.
"The responsibilities of the crown are significant," she ventured, testing the waters of how freely she might speak.
"Indeed they are," Thalor agreed, "particularly when one believes one's reign will coincide with existential threats to the entire realm."
Cersei nearly choked on her soup, taken aback by the bluntness of this statement. "I... beg your pardon, Your Highness?"
Thalor regarded her with interest, as if her reaction was itself revealing. "Forgive me, Lady Cersei. I sometimes forget that not everyone at court is privy to my brother's scholarly obsessions. Rhaegar has spent years studying ancient prophecies about a prince that was promised, a hero reborn who will lead the fight against darkness." He shrugged slightly. "He believes these prophecies refer to him, or perhaps to his future offspring."
The casual way he shared what seemed like extraordinarily sensitive information left Cersei momentarily speechless. Was this a test? A trap to see if she would gossip about the crown prince's unusual beliefs? Or did Prince Thalor simply not adhere to the normal constraints of court conversation?
"That must be... a challenging conviction to live with," she finally said, choosing neutrality.
"More challenging than you might imagine," Thalor replied, seeming satisfied with her response. "But then, all of us carry burdens of expectation, do we not? The crown prince and his prophecies. The Hand's daughter and her father's ambitions. The dragon prince and his... unique perspective."
There it was again—that sense that he could see through her carefully constructed facade to the calculations beneath. Cersei felt a flash of indignation mixed with an unexpected thrill. It had been a long time since anyone had truly challenged her, had seen her as more than a beautiful child or a political pawn.
"And what burden does the dragon prince carry?" she asked, deciding to match his directness with her own. "Besides the weight of being the only person in generations to command a living dragon?"
Thalor's eyes lit with what appeared to be genuine approval at her boldness. "A fair question, Lady Cersei. I carry the burden of knowledge—of understanding threats and solutions that others cannot yet comprehend. Of seeing connections between seemingly unrelated phenomena. Of remembering... things that haven't happened yet." He smiled slightly at her puzzled expression. "Or perhaps I'm simply a peculiar prince with unusual hobbies and an exceptional dragon. You'll have to form your own conclusions as we become better acquainted."
The arrival of the second course—roasted quail with autumn vegetables—provided a momentary pause in their conversation. Cersei used the interruption to gather her thoughts, increasingly intrigued by this unusual prince despite herself. He spoke in riddles yet gave the impression of complete honesty, a combination she had never encountered before.
"I've heard about your sewage system project," she said when the servers had moved on, deliberately shifting to safer ground. "It seems a... practical undertaking."
"You find it an odd preoccupation for a prince," Thalor observed, amusement evident in his tone. "Most do. Yet clean water and efficient waste management will save more lives in King's Landing than any battle victory or political alliance." He took a bite of quail, chewed thoughtfully, then added, "Though I suspect Lord Tywin has instructed you to focus on my bond with Nightfury rather than my infrastructural innovations."
Cersei felt heat rise to her cheeks at this direct reference to her father's strategic interests. "You presume much about my father's instructions, Your Highness."
"Not presumption, Lady Cersei. Observation and logical deduction." Thalor's expression remained good-humored rather than accusatory. "Lord Tywin is a brilliant strategist who understands power in all its forms. A dragon is power incarnate—the kind that shaped the Seven Kingdoms once before and might do so again. It would be odd if he didn't consider the implications of my bond with Nightfury when calculating House Lannister's future alliances."
Put that way, it sounded so straightforward, so unlike the complicated webs of subterfuge and maneuvering that Cersei had been taught constituted court politics. She found herself uncertain whether to be offended at his directness or refreshed by it.
"My father wants what's best for House Lannister," she said carefully. "As any great lord does for his house."
"Of course," Thalor agreed. "And what do you want, Lady Cersei?"
The question caught her off guard. Few people had ever asked about her own desires, separate from her family's ambitions or her prescribed role as a nobleman's daughter. For a moment, she was tempted to give a true answer—to speak of power, of escaping the constraints of womanhood in a man's world, of her determination to matter in ways her mother never had.
Instead, she offered a practiced smile. "I want to serve my house with honor, Your Highness, and to fulfill whatever destiny the gods have planned for me."
Thalor's green eyes studied her with that unnerving intensity, seeing too much. "A perfect courtly answer," he observed. "Perhaps someday you'll share the real one."
Before Cersei could respond, a commotion at the center of the high table drew everyone's attention. King Aerys had risen to his feet, his gaunt face flushed with wine and agitation. He was glaring down at Lord Tywin, who maintained his characteristic impassive expression despite whatever provocation had just occurred.
"...questioning your king's judgment?" Aerys's voice rose, carrying across the suddenly silent hall. "Perhaps my loyal Hand thinks himself wiser than the dragon!"
Queen Rhaella placed a gentle hand on her husband's arm. "My love, perhaps this discussion would be better continued in private—"
"I decide what discussions are public or private!" Aerys snapped, shaking off her touch. His violet eyes, feverishly bright, scanned the hall before landing on Thalor. "My son! Come, show these doubters the future of House Targaryen. Tell them what Nightfury has seen beyond the Wall."
Cersei felt Thalor tense beside her, a barely perceptible shift in his posture. His face, however, remained composed as he rose smoothly from his seat.
"Father," he acknowledged with a respectful bow. "I fear Nightfury's dreams may not be suitable dinner conversation. Perhaps I might instead describe the progress of the city improvements? Lord Tywin has expressed interest in the economic benefits—"
"Dreams?" Aerys laughed, a brittle sound that contained no true humor. "Not dreams. Visions! Prophecies! The dragon sees truth, just as I do." His gaze shifted accusingly back to Tywin. "While others see only coin and petty ambitions."
The tension in the hall was palpable. Cersei glanced at her father, admiring his self-control. Not a flicker of emotion crossed Lord Tywin's face as the king publicly insulted him. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed any reaction at all.
Prince Rhaegar had also risen, moving to stand beside his brother in what seemed like a practiced response to their father's outbursts. "Perhaps a song would be more fitting entertainment, Father," he suggested, his melodious voice projecting calm authority. "I've composed a new ballad that tells of Aegon's conquest, celebrating the Targaryen legacy."
For a moment, Aerys seemed to waver, his attention captured by the crown prince's suggestion. Then his gaze swept the hall again, filled with sudden suspicion.
"You conspire," he muttered, too loudly for dignity. "All of you. Whispering behind your king's back, doubting his vision..." His eyes fell on Cersei, narrowing dangerously. "Even bringing lion cubs into our midst, thinking we don't see the claws beneath the golden fur."
Cersei froze, heart hammering in her chest as the king's hostile attention focused on her. She had been warned about Aerys's growing paranoia and instability, but being the target of it was terrifying in a way she hadn't anticipated.
Before the king could continue, Thalor stepped forward, subtly placing himself between Aerys's line of sight and Cersei.
"Father," he said firmly, "Lady Cersei has only just arrived at court. She has proven herself a gracious guest and shown proper respect to House Targaryen." His voice shifted, taking on a quality that somehow commanded attention without rising in volume. "Perhaps you might honor us with your insights on the Myrish trade negotiations instead? The court would benefit from your wisdom on such matters."
It was a masterful deflection—acknowledging the king's authority while redirecting his focus to a neutral topic. Cersei watched, fascinated despite her fear, as Aerys's expression shifted, paranoia giving way to a hunger for adulation.
"The Myrish think themselves clever negotiators," Aerys declared, seizing on the new subject. "But they forget who rules the greatest kingdom in the known world..."
As the king launched into a rambling discourse on trade policy, periodically contradicting himself and making claims that caused several Small Council members to exchange concerned glances, Thalor subtly retreated to his seat beside Cersei.
"My apologies for my father's... directness," he murmured, pitched for her ears alone. "Your presence at court represents political implications he finds simultaneously appealing and threatening, depending on his mood."
Cersei maintained her composure with effort, conscious of the many eyes now covertly watching their interaction. "No apology is necessary, Your Highness. I understand the... complexities of court life."
"Do you?" Thalor asked, his green eyes searching hers. "Then you understand more than most who have spent their lives here." After a moment's consideration, he added in an even lower voice, "My father's condition worsens with time. What you witnessed tonight was mild compared to some episodes. It would be wise to be prepared."
The warning was clear, and Cersei found herself oddly touched by his concern. It seemed genuine rather than calculated—a prince looking out for a young lady new to the dangerous environment of his father's court.
"I appreciate your candor, Your Highness," she replied softly.
Thalor nodded, then deliberately shifted the conversation to lighter topics as servants brought the next course. He proved surprisingly knowledgeable about the Westerlands, asking intelligent questions about Casterly Rock's famous architecture and the gold mining operations that were the source of Lannister wealth. Cersei, well-educated on such matters by her father, found herself engaged in a discussion far more interesting than the vapid pleasantries she had anticipated exchanging at her first court dinner.
As the meal progressed and King Aerys's attention turned elsewhere, she began to relax slightly, allowing herself to observe the complex dynamics at play throughout the hall. Queen Rhaella maintained a dignified presence despite obvious strain, skillfully managing her husband's mercurial moods. Prince Rhaegar eventually took up his harp, filling the hall with hauntingly beautiful music that seemed to soothe the king's agitation. And her father, Lord Tywin, navigated the treacherous waters of his position with characteristic calculation, neither challenging Aerys directly nor capitulating to his more irrational demands.
Yet it was Prince Thalor who continued to draw her curiosity. Throughout the feast, he moved with ease between different roles—the dutiful son, the protective brother, the gracious host, the practical administrator discussing city improvements with council members. There was something uniquely adaptable about him, a chameleon-like quality that allowed him to be exactly what each situation required without seeming insincere.
And always, beneath the surface, that sense of watchfulness, of assessment, of a mind working several steps ahead of those around him.
By the time dessert was served—poached pears in honey and cinnamon—Cersei had revised her initial impressions significantly. Prince Thalor might lack Rhaegar's conventional romantic appeal, but he possessed something potentially more valuable: a combination of practical intelligence, political acumen, and genuine power through his bond with Nightfury.
"You're thinking very intently, Lady Cersei," Thalor observed, interrupting her reflections. "May I ask what conclusions you're reaching?"
Again, that directness that seemed to cut through the usual courtly pretense. Cersei considered her response carefully.
"I'm finding King's Landing more interesting than I anticipated," she said truthfully. "And its inhabitants more complex."
Thalor smiled—a genuine expression that reached his unusual eyes. "A diplomatic yet honest answer. I find you similarly interesting, Lady Cersei Lannister. You have a quick mind behind that perfect courtly facade."
The compliment, delivered with such matter-of-fact sincerity, warmed her more than she expected. "Thank you, Your Highness."
"Thalor, please, when we're speaking informally," he offered. "If we're to see much of each other during your time at court, excessive formality will become tedious."
The implication that he anticipated—perhaps even welcomed—future interactions was not lost on Cersei. "Then you must call me Cersei," she replied, a small thrill running through her at the intimacy this represented. "Though perhaps only when protocol allows."
"Of course." His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, appreciating her awareness of court etiquette. "Protocol has its place, even if I find many of its requirements arbitrary and inefficient."
"Is that your inventor's perspective speaking?" she asked, genuinely curious about how his mind worked.
"Partly," he acknowledged. "I tend to evaluate systems—whether mechanical, architectural, or social—based on their functionality rather than their tradition. It's a viewpoint that sometimes puts me at odds with court convention."
"Like your work with common craftsmen," Cersei observed. "I understand that's rather unusual for a prince."
"It is," Thalor agreed. "But effectiveness requires understanding, and understanding requires involvement. I can't design improvements to systems I comprehend only abstractly." He studied her with that penetrating gaze. "You might find some of my methods unconventional, Cersei, but I assure you they serve practical purposes."
There was something in his tone—not defensive, but perhaps justifying—that intrigued her. "Including your work on the city's sewage systems?" she ventured. "I confess, that seems an unusual priority for a prince of the blood."
"Especially compared to tourneys and court pageantry?" Thalor suggested, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Consider this: in the last year alone, improvements to water quality in Flea Bottom have reduced fever deaths by nearly a third. Over five years, that represents thousands of lives saved—more than any battle victory I could achieve with Nightfury." His expression grew serious. "A prince who truly serves his people must sometimes attend to unglamorous necessities, not just heroic gestures."
It was a perspective Cersei had never encountered before. At Casterly Rock, her father ruled efficiently but distantly, concerning himself with grand strategy and House Lannister's position rather than the daily lives of smallfolk. The idea that a Targaryen prince—a dragonrider, no less—would devote his considerable talents to something as mundane as public sanitation challenged her understanding of power and its proper application.
"You have a unique view of a prince's duties," she observed, neither approving nor criticizing.
"I have a unique perspective on many things," Thalor replied with that enigmatic half-smile. "Perhaps someday I'll share more of them with you."
Further conversation was interrupted as King Aerys suddenly rose again, declaring the feast concluded and departing with his Kingsguard in tow. The court rose respectfully, then began to disperse as Queen Rhaella graciously bid the guests goodnight.
"It seems our evening draws to a close," Thalor noted, standing and offering Cersei his hand to assist her from her seat—a courtly gesture performed with natural grace. "I've enjoyed our conversation, Cersei. Perhaps tomorrow you might visit the Broken Tower? I could show you some of the projects we've been discussing, and introduce you to Nightfury properly."
The invitation was unexpected but deeply gratifying. A private audience with the prince and his dragon would be the envy of every noble maiden at court—and more importantly, would provide Cersei invaluable opportunity to further assess Thalor's character and potential.
"I would be honored, Your High—Thalor," she corrected herself with a small smile. "Though I should consult with my lady mother's cousins who serve as my chaperones."
"Of course," he agreed. "Protocol has its place, after all. Send word when you've arranged matters, and I'll ensure Nightfury is prepared for visitors." His green eyes twinkled with mischief. "He enjoys making a good impression, particularly on intelligent young ladies."
With that, he bowed formally and moved to join his mother and brothers, leaving Cersei to be escorted back to her chambers by her father's steward.
As she prepared for bed that night, dismissing her handmaidens to contemplate the evening in solitude, Cersei found her thoughts returning repeatedly to Prince Thalor. He was nothing like she had expected—neither the conventional heroic prince of songs nor the eccentric inventor she had briefly feared. Instead, he was a complex blend of practical intelligence, political acumen, and genuine charisma, wrapped in a disarmingly direct manner that somehow made her feel seen in ways few ever had.
And then there was Nightfury—the only living dragon in the world, bound to Thalor in ways that clearly transcended the historical relationships between Targaryens and their mounts. The power such a bond represented was immense, perhaps even rivaling the formal authority of the crown itself.
Cersei had come to King's Landing prepared to assess both princes as potential matches, with an initial bias toward Rhaegar as the heir apparent. Yet after just one evening, she found herself intrigued by the possibility that Thalor—the spare, the "Dragon Prince"—might represent an equally valuable alliance for House Lannister.
For herself.
Her father had instructed her to observe, to learn, to form her own judgments about which Targaryen prince might best serve Lannister interests. Tomorrow's visit to the Broken Tower would provide an opportunity to explore those questions further, to see Thalor in his element, to better understand the unique path he was forging.
As sleep finally claimed her, Cersei's last conscious thoughts were of emerald eyes that seemed to see too much, and the impossible possibility that she—a girl raised on dreams of crowns and power—might find herself drawn to a prince not for his title, but for his mind.