Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 25: Power of Propaganda
The Small Council chamber felt heavier than usual.
The air carried the faint scent of wax and ink, mixed with the lingering odor of chilled stone that never quite warmed. At the center of the long table lay two maps—one of Westeros, stretched wide and marked with colored pins, and a smaller, more detailed rendering of King's Landing, its gates and streets etched with careful precision.
Joffrey stood at its head.
Around him, the room had filled quickly—Ser Barristan standing tall and silent, Jacelyn with arms folded and posture rigid, Tyrion seated his legs dangling over the ground, and Bronn lingering just behind him with an easy, watchful stillness. Varys remained near the far side of the table, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes moving without seeming to. Even Tobho had remained per the king's command, standing slightly apart, clearly feeling the invisible weight that bore down on the room.
Joffrey let that weight settle before he finally spoke.
"Lord Tyrion," he said, his tone even, "repeat for the others what you have told me."
Tyrion shifted slightly in his chair, glancing briefly around the table before nodding. "Renly Baratheon is dead," he said plainly. "And from most accounts… Stannis is responsible."
A quiet murmur ran through those in attendance.
Jacelyn frowned, his brow tightening as he leaned forward slightly. "How?" he asked. "Renly had nearly thirty thousand men and even more on the way."
Tyrion gave a small shrug. "Accounts differ. One claims that a member of his Kingsguard turned on him. Another suggests poison—wine placed conveniently within reach." His lips pressed together briefly. "And then there are those who claim Stannis used… darker means."
His tone made it clear what he thought of that.
"Black magic," Tyrion added dryly. "Which, I think we can all agree is ridiculous."
Joffrey's gaze remained on the map.
"I wouldn't be so sure, uncle," he thought to himself.
But he said nothing.
Tyrion continued, more serious now. "However it happened, it matters not, Renly is dead, and his bannermen have already begun pledging themselves to Stannis."
Around the table, eyes shifted—brief glances exchanged, calculations already forming. There was tension there now, quiet but undeniable, but the king remained completely calm.
"How many men?" he asked.
Tyrion inhaled slightly. "Again, reports vary Your Grace. Scouts have given us—"
"How many, Tyrion." He said more sternly.
The dwarf's jaw tightened just a fraction before he answered.
"At least thirty thousand," he said. "Possibly more."
Joffrey's eyes flicked once across the map.
"That's a lot more than the tv series," Joffrey thought.
"And ships?" he asked.
Varys spoke this time, his voice smooth and measured. "My little birds tell me Stannis commands no fewer than two hundred vessels, Your Grace."
The king nodded once. Then he leaned forward, placing both hands on the table, his gaze dropping fully to the map. Silence stretched as he looked over the map, as if he was pondering every possible outcome. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer—but no less stern.
"With two hundred ships, he cannot move his entire force by sea," the King said.
Joffrey traced along the coastline with his finger before tapping lightly against the painted waters of Blackwater Bay.
"He'll have to split his army," he said.
The room stilled further.
"Some will sail," Joffrey continued. "The rest will march up the Kingsroad, and gather here."
His finger slid inland, stopping just south of the city, to the land divided by the river that ran to Blackwater Bay.
Tyrion studied the map, then Joffrey. "You seem very certain."
Joffrey didn't look up.
"Stannis sat on my father's council for years," he said. "He knows this city. He knows its strengths."
His finger moved again—this time to the walls of King's Landing.
"And its weaknesses." It stopped at a single point. "The Mud Gate."
His Hand and other councilors' expressions sharpened.
"It's close to the harbor," Joffrey went on. "Close enough that a coordinated assault from land and sea would stretch our defenses thin. And the structure—" his finger tapped once, "—it won't hold long against a proper ram."
Tyrion nodded slowly, agreeing with his nephew's assessment.
Ser Barristan stepped forward slightly. "What are your orders, Your Grace?"
Joffrey straightened up from the map. For a moment, he said nothing—just long enough that everyone in the room leaned toward him without realizing it. Then he finally turned.
"Lord Tyrion," he said. "Your savages from the Vale. Do you still have them?"
Tyrion blinked. "The mountain clans? Yes… though I fail to see—"
"We'll send them out along with a special unit from my Royal Guards," Joffrey decided. "They'll prepare a special welcome for Stannis' army in the Kingswood."
The dwarf frowned, confusion clear on his face.
"Special unit?" He wondered.
"See that it's done." Joffrey ordered.
Tyrion hesitated—then nodded slowly. The king then turned his attention to his Industrial Overseer.
"Tobho."
The blacksmith straightened instinctively. "Your Grace."
"The Hwaches, how many are fully operational?"
Tobho scratched at his beard briefly. "Ten are still under repair. Over stressed from the northern engagement. But we have twenty-one fully operational."
Joffrey nodded. "Prioritize the repairs. Divert whatever resources you need. I want all of them to be functional before my uncle arrives."
Tobho inclined his head.
"And increase production of bolt swarms," Joffrey continued. "I want no shortages."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Good. Once they are ready, position them along the Mud Gate wall and the King's Gate wall."
Tobho's eyes flicked briefly to the map, then back. "It will be done."
The king nodded, before turning his head.
"Jacelyn."
"My king."
"I want a trench dug outside the Mud Gate and the King's Gate," Joffrey said. "Deep enough to harass siege ladders and walking poles. Wide enough to slow any attempt to climb it."
Jacelyn nodded immediately. "It shall be done. We'll rotate the labor into three shifts."
"Do it."
The King's gaze then moved down the line to the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard.
"Ser Barristan."
The old knight stepped forward slightly.
"The refugees outside the city," Joffrey said. "Bring them in. Safely. But do not displace the city's citizens to do it."
Barristan inclined his head. "It will be done, Your Grace."
Joffrey straightened fully.
"Gentlemen, you have your orders," he said. "See that they are carried out."
The room stirred.
Men began to move, chairs scraping softly as they pushed back, boots turning toward the door—
Tobho hesitated.
"My king," he said, stopping just short of the threshold. "What if Stannis doesn't attack the Mud Gate?"
The room stilled again, everybody turning to the king wanting to hear his answer, while Joffrey just raised an eyebrow. His response came without hesitation.
"Then we're fucked."
Tobho and some of the others unconsciously gulped loudly.
A faint, uneasy sound passed through him, but before it could grow into doubt, Joffrey's voice followed, steadier this time.
"I understand all of you have concerns, but I need all of you to trust that I know what I'm doing. Have faith. This city will never fall. Not while I draw breath."
The King's words managed to dispel some of their doubts.
"Yes, your grace." they said in unison.
One by one, they left, the chamber emptying until only two remained. But when Tyrion rose from his seat along with Varys, the king stopped them.
"Not you two," he said.
Tyrion and Varys exchanged a brief glance—something quiet passing between them—before both turned back and approached the table again.
Joffrey gestured once. "Please sit."
As they did, the heavy oak doors closed behind the departing council, leaving Joffrey alone with the remaining two. The king rested his hands lightly against the edge of the table, his gaze shifting between the two of them, as if sizing them up.
Then without saying a word he reached out for the pitcher at his side and poured each of them a cup of wine.
The wine filled the first cup, then the second, the sound of the pouring liquid carrying farther than it should have in the quiet room. He slid one goblet toward Tyrion, the other toward Varys, before finally pouring one for himself.
Joffrey lifted his cup and took a small sip, while Tyrion and Varys watched.
The Hand lifted his own goblet, taking a measured sip, letting the silence stretch just a little longer. Varys followed suit, raising his cup with practiced ease, though his eyes never quite left the king.
"Was there something you wished to discuss, Your Grace?" Tyrion asked, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Or shall we sit here and admire your hospitality in silence?"
Joffrey lowered his cup.
"Yes," he said calmly. "As a matter of fact, there is."
He took another small sip before setting the goblet aside, turning his full attention toward his uncle.
"I have a task for you."
Tyrion raised a brow. "That sounds promising."
"I want you to write letters," Joffrey said. "To every major house in the realm. From Dorne to the Wall."
That caught the pair's attention.
Tyrion leaned forward slightly. "And what, precisely, would you like these letters to say?"
Joffrey's fingers tapped lightly against the table once.
"The truth."
Tyrion's expression shifted—curiosity tightening into something more focused. The young king continued, his tone steady, almost conversational.
"Stannis Baratheon is both a traitor to the realm… and to the gods. He allows a foreign red witch to whisper in his ear, and he obeys her commands without question," Joffrey said. His gaze flicked briefly to the Westeros map before continuing. "He is also a kinslayer who murdered his own brother through blood magic in order to seize a crown he cannot win through strength."
As his words settled the two looked at him with a mixture of surprise and intrigue. Joffrey, on the other hand, appeared completely calm and collected.
Tyrion let out a quiet breath through his nose. "How bold," he said. "Even for you, Joffrey."
Joffrey's lips curved faintly. "Stannis has slandered my name to the entire realm," he replied. "It's only fair that I return the favor."
He leaned back slightly, one hand resting against the arm of his chair.
"With the High Septon's cooperation, the Faith will reinforce the message," he added. "Let the septons carry it to the people. Let them whisper it in every corner of the realm until it becomes engrained in their minds."
Tyrion considered the idea for a moment, before slowly nodding.
"There's merit in it," he admitted. "Men will forgive ambition. They rarely forgive a kinslayer."
The king inclined his head slightly, as if that had already been accounted for, then his attention shifted.
"Varys."
The spider straightened subtly, folding his hands within his sleeves. "How may I serve, Your Grace?"
Joffrey's gaze settled on him fully now.
"The hosts of the Reach," he said. "Where are they exactly?"
Varys didn't hesitate. "My little birds report that the Tyrell host has gathered at Bitterbridge."
Joffrey nodded once.
"Excellent, you will go to them immediately."
Tyrion frowned, while Varys' brow lifted just slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through his usual composure.
"Go… to them?" Varys repeated. "For what purpose?"
Joffrey didn't waver.
"You will broker an alliance between the Reach and the Crown."
An awkward silence followed after the king's proclamation.
Tyrion leaned forward, studying him more closely. "That's a generous offer, Your Grace," he said carefully. "Considering their last… alliance."
"Their last ally is dead," Joffrey replied evenly. "Renly is gone. Mace Tyrell no longer has a king to follow."
Varys watched him closely now, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.
"And you believe he will simply… bend the knee?" the eunuch asked.
"I believe," Joffrey said, "that he will choose the side they believe is most likely to win."
He gestured faintly toward the map.
"And right now, that is undecided."
Tyrion exhaled softly, rubbing at his chin. "The fat flower has already betrayed one king," he said. "You'd trust him not to do it again?"
Joffrey's gaze shifted to him.
"We don't need to trust him," he said. "But we do need him."
The words landed harder than any argument Tyrion could pose.
"The Reach produces the grain that feeds more than half the realm," Joffrey continued. "Their armies, their grain, and their gold—without them, the realm will wither once winter arrives."
Joffrey's fingers tapped once against the table.
"Yesterday's enemies become today's allies when necessity demands it. Robb Stark should have taught you that, uncle."
Tyrion didn't respond, nor did he have to. The king then turned his attention back to Varys.
"You will take two of the Reach lords' heirs we currently hold," he said. "Present them as a gesture of good faith."
Varys inclined his head slightly. "And the terms of this alliance?"
Joffrey's expression didn't change.
"You'll decide that when you're standing in front of them."
Varys paused.
He was leaving the entire negotiation up to his discretion. That, more than anything else, made him uneasy.
"You are… entrusting me with a great deal, Your Grace."
"I am," he confirmed, pausing for a moment. "You are not to return without reinforcements."
The room went still again. Varys opened his mouth, as if to press further, to find some kind of edge of what had just been placed in his hands—but the king wouldn't let him. This was his test after all.
"Not another word."
He commanded as he rose from his seat.
"You have your assignments," he said. "Now see to them."
And with that, he turned and walked from the chamber without waiting for acknowledgement, the door closing behind him with a firm, final sound.
For a moment, neither man spoke now that they were alone in the small council chamber. Varys remained seated, his gaze lingering on the door long after it had shut.
"Well," he said at last, voice smooth but quieter than before, "that was… final."
Tyrion let out a short, dry chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "My nephew has developed a taste for decisiveness," he said. "It's becoming rather difficult to ignore."
Varys reached for the pitcher, moving to refill Tyrion's cup.
Tyrion pulled it back.
"No," he said.
Varys paused, a faint question lingering behind his expression.
"I have letters to write," Tyrion added. "Important ones. I'd prefer to keep my mind clear when I do it."
Varys inclined his head slightly. "A wise decision."
He gazed at the dwarf for a long moment before continuing.
"You've taken to the role of Hand rather well, my lord. Better than some who came before you." Varys said with just a whisper of a smile on his lips.
Tyrion snorted softly. "Are you suggesting I possess more competence than Ned Stark?"
Varys' eyes gleamed faintly. "I am suggesting that honor, when placed above necessity, while noble can become… inconvenient."
Tyrion studied him for a moment, then nodded once.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
They spoke a while longer after that—low, measured exchanges that drifted between matters of coin, supply, and rumor. Nothing too direct or revealing. Yet beneath it, something else moved—something almost subtle.
Trust, perhaps. Or at least the beginnings of it. After all, the spider had been indispensable to the dwarf ever since he set foot in the city, as the king had ordered him to.
At last, chairs scraped softly against the stone as both men rose.
Tyrion adjusted his sleeve, glancing once toward the door. "Try not to get yourself killed," he said.
Varys smiled faintly. "Nor you, my lord."
They parted ways after exiting the chamber. Each with their own orders to carry out and each with their own thoughts regarding them. Neither knew the storm that was about to unfold, but one thing was clear—the game was about to reach a climax.
o-O-o
That night from the Red Keep's towers, as well as the lesser keeps of the city, in every rookery sworn to the crown—cages opened in rapid succession, wings beating into the dark as black shapes scattered across the sky.
Each raven carried a message bearing the king's seal, each message carried the same carefully chosen words, and by dawn those words had begun to root themselves in every corner of the realm.
They did not arrive all at once, ravens never did. Nonetheless, the message arrived all the same.
o-O-o
In Dorne, the heat came early.
The Water Gardens shimmered beneath the sun, light dancing across shallow pools where children's laughter echoed between marble columns. The air smelled faintly of citrus and stone warmed by the summer sun. The entire region felt at ease, completely untouched by the troubles of the realm.
A servant approached along the shaded path, her steps measured, careful not to disturb the stillness. She held the parchment with both hands, as if its weight alone demanded respect.
"My Prince," she said softly.
Doran Martell did not look up immediately.
He sat where he always did, his body settled into his wheeled chair, the sunlight resting across his face as if it belonged there. Only after a moment did he extend his hand.
The seal broke easily.
His eyes moved across the parchment at an unhurried pace, absorbing each line, each accusation, each thread woven into the message. There was no flicker of surprise. No visible reaction beyond the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth.
A faint smirk formed.
"Cute," he murmured.
The word was soft, but it carried weight.
He folded the parchment once between his fingers before flicking it aside, letting the breeze take it. The paper lifted, caught in the wind, and tumbled away beyond the garden walls, swallowed by the endless stretch of sand and sun beyond.
Doran's gaze never followed it.
Instead, his fingers tapped slowly against the arm of his chair, the rhythm thoughtful, patient—as if the message had told him far more than it intended.
o-O-o
Unlike Dorne, Riverrun did not have the same sun-kissed luxury.
The stone walls held the cold longer here, the light was dimmer, the air seemed heavier with things left unsaid. Inside one of its chambers, a woman stood rigid, the parchment clenched tightly in her hands.
It crumpled slightly beneath her grip.
Her eyes moved across the words again, though she no longer needed to read them. They were already burned into her thoughts, etched there alongside everything else that had gone wrong.
Her son Robb had been defeated in the field and was forced to bend the knee to the south again. Soon her husband would be forced to journey north and join the Night's Watch, forever beyond her arms.
Those thoughts twisted something deep in her chest, something sharp and suffocating all at once.
"This is what they've done," she whispered, her voice trembling as anger began to rise through the cracks. "This is what they've done to us."
Her fingers tightened further, knuckles whitening.
"The Lannisters… the Baratheons…. that boy king… all of them."
Behind her, a chair shifted.
"Catelyn—" Edmure began, his voice cautious, stepping forward just enough to be heard.
She turned on him before he could finish.
"No," she snapped, her voice breaking into something harsher, something raw. "Do not tell me this isn't their doing. Do not stand there and pretend this wasn't their plan from the start."
Edmure's mouth opened, then closed again.
Across the room, the Blackfish watched in silence, his expression tightening slightly as he leaned against the wall.
"You're the one who told Ned to trust Baelish, Cat," he said at last, his voice quieter, but firmer.
The words landed and for a moment—something flickered across her face. But as fast as it came it went.
"I trusted a man who was supposed to be loyal to our family," she shot back. "A man I thought of as a little brother. One who was supposed to serve and aid us for the good of the realm. Not sell it piece by piece to the lions."
She had sent countless ravens to Winterfell, but had yet to receive a single response, and was beginning to fear the worst.
"Family," she whispered again, her voice thinning. "Duty… Honor…"
Catelyn said using the family words that usually calmed her heart, while her fingers shook as she clutched the parchment closer, as though tearing it might somehow undo what it carried.
The words felt distant, but she held onto them anyway, even as they slipped through her grasp.
o-O-o
At the Wall, none of it mattered.
Castle Black stood as it always did—cold, unyielding, carved from ice and stubborn will. The wind cut through the yard, carrying with it the smell of snow and steel as a steward made his way toward the Lord Commander's chambers.
Inside, Jeor Mormont sat hunched over a wooden bowl, steam rising faintly as he ate.
"What is it?" he grunted.
"A message, my lord."
Mormont took it without ceremony, setting his spoon aside as he broke the seal. His eyes scanned the parchment quickly, his brow furrowing once before smoothing out again.
Then—he laughed.
A rough, barking sound that filled the small room.
"Bunch of southern cunts," he muttered, shaking his head as he crumpled the parchment slightly in his grip. "Always tearing each other apart over crowns and titles."
He tossed it into the fire.
The flames caught quickly, curling the edges inward as the ink blackened and vanished.
"Gods! It's times like these I'm glad we don't take part in their little wars."
He picked up his spoon again and went back to his meal, as if the rest of the realm might as well have been a story told by someone else.
o-O-o
Down in the Stormlands, the air carried tension like a storm waiting to break.
The camp stretched wide beneath a dim sky, banners snapping sharply in the wind as men moved with a new kind of caution—voices lower, movements measured, eyes watching more than they spoke.
Inside the command pavilion, Stannis Baratheon stood rigid. The parchment shook in his hand.
His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, his teeth grinding together as his eyes burned over the words written there. Each line struck cleanly, each accusation placed with deliberate precision.
Traitor.
Kinslayer.
Blood magic.
His fingers curled, crushing the parchment as something hot surged through him, sharp and immediate.
He tore it in half. Then again and again, until the pieces fell at his feet like ash.
"Who else has seen this?" he demanded, his voice low, controlled only by force.
The steward bowed quickly. "No one, my king. Only you."
Stannis gave a short nod.
But the answer didn't matter. He could already tell that the damage had been done.
He could tell in the way men avoided his gaze. In the way their voices dropped when he passed. In the way orders were followed—but without the same certainty as before.
The whispers had already spread.
At first, he dismissed them as the mutterings of smallfolk. The ramblings of septons clinging to old gods and older fears. He had answered them as he always did.
With punishment; usually involving nooses and trees. But all that had accomplished was to make the talk grow louder.
Now even his own lords looked at him differently. They didn't openly question him, at least not yet.
But it was there.
Stannis' gaze then shifted to the chair at the side of the pavilion where his Red Priestess used to sit. It was empty, which had become a normal occurrence since she had returned from unleashing his 'child' against Renly.
Since her return, she seemed quieter, almost completely withdrawn. It stood in stark contrast to her earlier council.
She had not seemed the same since the night her spell had failed. Yet she had refused to discuss it with him no matter how many times he asked.
The only response he had ever been able to elicit from her was; "My Lord was displeased with me."
Stannis' breath slowed, his chest rising as he forced himself to regain his composure. For a moment, his thoughts drifted back in time.
Not to crowns, or of war, but to a boy.
Dark-haired, laughing too easily, running along the cliffs of Storm's End with salt in the air and no weight on his shoulders.
"Renly," he thought, a hint of pain filling his chest as he remembered his younger brother.
But Stannis immediately regained his bearing. Whatever flicker of hesitation or doubt that had surfaced was quickly buried, crushed beneath something harder and less forgiving.
There was no going back, not after all the sacrifices he had made to claim the Iron Throne.
"The Iron Throne is mine by right," he said, his voice steadier now, anchored in his own unbending sense of morality and entitlement.
His hand tightened at his side.
"And I will take it."
Outside, the wind rose, snapping the gold of black stag banners harder against their poles. While inside, his council awaited their king's orders.
o-O-o
Thousands of miles away from the stormlands, another raven flew through the night.
It cut across the golden hills of the Westerlands, wings beating hard against the wind before banking toward the great stone lion carved into the cliffside. Casterly Rock rose from the sea like something ancient and unyielding, its walls swallowing the sky as the bird vanished into its rookery.
The message was quickly received.
A serving girl carried it through winding corridors carved deep into the mountain, her steps quick, careful, the parchment clutched close as if it might burn her fingers if held too loosely. The deeper she went, the colder the air became, the sounds of the outside world fading into a distant, muffled echo.
At last, she reached the chamber.
She knocked once, but didn't receive an answer. She swallowed deeply, gathering her courage and stepped inside.
Cersei Lannister stood near the window, though no light touched her there.
"My lady," the girl said softly, offering the letter with lowered eyes.
Cersei turned.
Her fingers—long, pale, still elegant despite the tension running through them—took the parchment. For a moment, she said nothing, her gaze fixed on the seal as if it had personally offended her.
Then she broke it, unfolding the message and letting her eyes move across the page.
The silence stretched as she read, her expression tightening line by line, something sharp gathering behind her eyes as the words settled into place. When she reached the end, her hand stilled.
Then—the parchment tore.
Once.
Twice.
Again and again until it was nothing but fragments in her grasp.
"Get out!"
The words cracked through the chamber like a whip.
The serving girl flinched, nearly stumbling over herself in her haste to flee, the door slamming shut behind her as the echo lingered.
Cersei stood alone in her solar.
Her chest rose and fell unevenly, breath catching as her grip tightened around the ruined scraps before she let them fall. They drifted to the floor like dead leaves.
Her dress—deep red, lined with gold—hung slightly askew, the fabric twisted where her hands had gripped it earlier. Strands of her golden hair had come loose, falling around her face in disarray. Her eyes, once bright, were rimmed red now, the green dulled by sleepless nights and simmering fury.
She seized a goblet from the table and hurled it against the wall. It smashed in on itself from the impact, wine streaking down the stone like blood.
"All my cubs," she breathed, her voice rising, cracking. "Scattered, and kept away from my side."
Her hand slammed against the table, rattling the remaining glass.
"My precious boy—" she hissed, pacing faster now. "My son. My son—and he casts me out, listens to whispers like some witless fool—"
Her nails dug into her palms, the skin breaking beneath the pressure.
"The red-haired whore…" she muttered, her voice dropping, turning sharper. "And that twisted little creature that clings to his side…"
Her gaze snapped toward the door as if she could see through it, across leagues of land, all the way to King's Landing.
"They've poisoned him against me."
The candles flickered, their flames bending though no wind should have reached them. The glass of the window began to cloud, frost creeping along its edges in thin, branching lines.
"They think they can take what's mine," she whispered, pacing slowly, her steps uneven now. "That they can cast me aside and—"
Unseen by Cersei, a faint white mist slipped through the seams of the chamber, frosting the glass window as it curled low along the floor. The mist rose, thin tendrils brushing against the edges of the room. It moved without sound, gradually enveloping the former queen in its embrace.
Then an old dreaded voice filled the former queen's mind.
"Aye… Queen you shall be…" Maggy the frog's voice spoke in her mind.
Cersei's eyes widened as the voice coiled through her thoughts, making the chamber seem like it was closing in around her.
"No no no," she murmured, her voice suddenly smaller, thinner.
"Until there comes another… younger… more beautiful…" it continued just as sinister as the day she first heard the words.
Cersei's hands rose to her head, fingers tangling in her hair as she shook it violently.
"No. No, that was nothing. She was just some crazy hermit! She—"
"To cast you down…"
The words slid through her like ice.
"To take all that you hold dear."
Her breath came faster now, sharper, her chest tightening as something cold settled deep beneath her ribs. The mist curled closer, brushing against her shoulders, and felt as if the woman was right there whispering her wretched words into her ear.
"When your tears have drowned you…"
Cersei gasped, her hand flying to her throat.
"Then the valonqar shall wrap his hands around your pale white throat…" The air tightened. "—and choke the life from you."
Her fingers dug into her skin as if she could claw the voice out of herself, nails breaking the surface, thin lines of blood welling beneath them.
"I killed that dumb girl," she whispered hoarsely. "I stopped it! I did everything—"
The cold pressed closer and closer. And for the first time in a long while—Cersei hesitated.
Just a flicker, enough for doubt to slip in, and then it vanished.
Her jaw tightened, her hand dropping slowly from her throat as something harder settled in its place.
"No." She thought. "I will not be cast down, I will not have everything I dreamt of stolen from me by some northern harlot."
Her gaze sharpened, focusing again, the tremor in her breath fading as anger surged back to fill the space fear had left behind.
"The whore has to die," she proclaimed and for a brief moment her emerald green eyes turned icy blue.
Cersei turned and strode from the chamber, the message to her agent in the Red Keep already forming in her mind before the door even closed behind her.
The white mist lingered for a moment, then it drifted back toward the window, slipping through the cracks of stone and glass as the frost began to recede, the candles steadying once more as warmth crept back into the room.
The frosted window sill the only evidence it was ever there.
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