The Son of Ice and Fire (Jon Snow SI)

Maekar guided Neferion above the clouds, the world below hidden beneath a soft, endless blanket of white. The evening sun painted the sky in hues of gold, amber, and crimson, its fading light reflecting off the dragon's dark scales and making them shimmer with an almost molten glow. It was a breathtaking sight—this boundless expanse with the sun sinking low on the horizon, giving way to the cool blues of twilight. The air was crisp and intoxicating in its purity, the wind rushing past him and tugging at his cloak.

Neferion roared, the sound reverberating around them—a sheer expression of joy that Maekar felt echoing through their connection. Being up here, above the world and the only witnesses to the sky's changing colors, filled Maekar with a sense of freedom he rarely found elsewhere.

At his command, Neferion twisted in the air, diving lower until they skimmed above the clouds. Maekar chuckled as he thought about the world below. It was strange, he mused, to have such a connection with two beings—Ghost, his direwolf, and Neferion. Ghost had Daenerys now to keep him company whenever Maekar was too busy, but Neferion had only him. He could sense the dragon's happiness whenever they flew together.

Two and a half months had passed since the war began, and tensions were rising. Aegon was planning his march to the capital, his forces gathering and waiting for the Dornish army to arrive. So far, the enemy camp believed that Neferion belonged to Aegon. It amused Maekar to no end—how they had come to that conclusion and remained so blissfully ignorant.

"Fools," he muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Did Aegon truly believe the dragon was his?

Maekar had ensured that no word of him commanding Neferion reached Aegon's camp, keeping the element of surprise close for when the moment was right—when he would confront Aegon for the first and final time and secure the Seven Kingdoms for himself.

But that was still to come. For now, his focus was on the Riverlands. The last word he'd received was that the Blackwoods had left Raventree Hall, with Edmure Tully in pursuit.

He had made an alliance with Harlaw through Asha, and the ironborn had promised to support the Mallisters and Blackwoods. Uncle Eddard and Lord Ryswell would also be joining, sailing to ensure that Edmure did not take the northern lands loyal to him in the Riverlands. He could only hope Edmure hadn't caught up with Blackwood just yet.

Maekar looked down, commanding Neferion to descend. The dragon obeyed, banking sharply as they plunged beneath the clouds. The sudden change in light was striking—the shadowed lands beneath them illuminated by the final glimmers of dusk. Below stretched the coastline of the Blackwood lands, with Ironman's Bay to his left. He flew for some time, scanning the terrain for any signs of armies, his eyes sharp and narrowed.

Then he saw it—an open field strewn with the remnants of battle. Churned ground, scattered debris, and figures moving among it. His heart sank. His grip on Neferion's reins tightened, and he let out a curse under his breath.

"Fuck."

Neferion felt his distress and let out a roar that echoed across the landscape below. Maekar scanned the field anxiously, searching for signs of the outcome. Had Edmure been successful? Had he managed to catch and defeat Blackwood and Mallister?

As they swooped lower, closer to the battlefield, Maekar began to make out more details. His eyes caught sight of ironborn ships anchored just off the shore, with Stark ships farther away, still visible in the bay.

Relief washed over him, and he grinned. He shouldn't have been so worried. He commanded Neferion lower, his eyes now seeking out the victorious army.

He spotted the banners of Stark, Harlaw, Blackwood, and Mallister fluttering proudly above a large camp nestled between two hills. He also saw banners on the ground—Tully, Vance, Piper, Bracken—trampled and torn.

It was clear who had won this battle.

Maekar guided Neferion down, circling before descending near the base of the hills. The dragon's wings spread wide as he slowed, the gusts of air from his descent rustling the camp below. Soldiers gathered, looking up at the enormous black dragon. As Neferion landed with a reverberating thud, a cheer rose from the camp. Men shouted their welcome, their voices echoing across the valley.

Maekar smiled at the sound, patting Neferion's neck gently as the dragon shifted his great bulk to lay down, allowing Maekar to dismount. Neferion's massive form was a challenge to scale down quickly, but Maekar moved with practiced ease. His boots hit the earth, and he straightened, glancing toward the camp where he could see riders approaching.

At the head of the group was a familiar figure, and as soon as Maekar saw who it was, his face lit up with genuine happiness. Robb Stark, his cousin and closest friend, was riding ahead of the group. It had been two years since they had last seen each other, and the sight of Robb filled Maekar with warmth.

Neferion, sensing his emotions, let out a soft rumble, relaxing and laying his head down comfortably as the riders neared. Robb stopped a short distance away, dismounting in a hurry before almost running toward him.

Maekar, his smile widening, walked forward to meet Robb midway, pulling him into a strong embrace.

"You got fat," Robb said, his voice muffled in the embrace, a teasing grin on his face.

"Fuck off," Maekar shot back, laughter in his voice.

Robb stepped back, still smiling. "So, do I have to call you 'Your Grace' now?" he asked.

"Yes," Maekar replied, feigning a serious tone while laughing. "I would much prefer that."

Robb laughed, but then his expression grew serious. He stepped back, unbuckling his sword belt and then kneeling, the blade resting on the ground in front of him. "Your Grace," he said formally, his voice clear. Behind him, the others had caught up and followed suit, each lord dismounting and taking a knee.

Maekar nodded, his voice firm but gentle. "Rise."

The lords stood, and Maekar greeted them warmly, his eyes scanning the familiar faces. "My lords, it's good to see you all in good health," he said. His gaze found his uncle, and he nodded in acknowledgment. "Uncle Ned."

Eddard Stark gave a small nod in return, his face lined with weariness but showing a glimmer of pride.

Maekar's eyes then scanned the group again, searching for someone missing. "Where is Patrek Mallister?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

The lords exchanged glances, and Brynden Blackwood looked down, his face marked by sorrow. Maekar's heart sank at the silence that followed. He saw Patrek's younger brother, Jasper, standing there looking stricken, his eyes hollow with grief.

"I see," Maekar said quietly, understanding what had happened. He looked to his uncle, who spoke in a soft, even voice. "Patrek died bravely," Eddard said.

Maekar walked over to Jasper, who looked barely fourteen, his face pale, eyes rimmed with red. He placed a hand on Jasper's shoulder, his voice gentle.

"Your brother was a true knight, Jasper," he said. "He fought for his home, his people, and his honor."

Jasper looked at Maekar, his lips trembling slightly before he nodded, his voice cracking as he said, "Thank you, Your Grace."

Maekar gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then stood, looking back at the gathered lords. Robb and Brynden were both staring at Neferion, as were several others. The dragon let out a huff, nostrils flaring as it shifted its massive head—the sound almost one of contentment.

"Shall we talk in the camp?" Maekar said, turning back to them. "I assume you have prisoners?"

Robb met his eyes, his expression darkening slightly. "We do," he said. "I captured Edmure Tully myself."

"Then let's not keep him waiting. We have much to discuss."

====

Maekar stood in the center of the camp, the surviving lords—Tully, Frey, Piper, and Vance—arranged before him. Edmure looked pale and drawn, his left arm bound tightly in a makeshift tourniquet.

In the distance, Neferion's large form loomed—dark and imposing. The dragon's glowing green eyes were fixed intently on Maekar.

"Lord Tully," Maekar acknowledged, stepping forward.

"King Maekar," Edmure replied, his voice strained and filled with pain. He winced as he shifted his weight.

Maekar smirked, his voice laced with sarcasm. "Oh, so now I am king?" He let out a chuckle, and laughter rippled among the men and lords gathered around. Edmure's face reddened with shame and fear.

"I hear your new wife has borne you a daughter, Lord Tully. Congratulations." Maekar's words hung in the air, and Edmure's eyes widened with terror, his face growing even paler.

"Please, Your Grace—" Edmure began, but his voice faltered.

Maekar held up a hand, silencing him. "Rest assured, Edmure," he said quietly, his voice carrying a certain weight. "I am not one to harm the innocent."

Edmure sagged in relief, his eyes lowering to the ground. Maekar turned away from him, his gaze sweeping over the others. "As for you, Lords Piper, Frey, and Vance," he said, his voice growing louder, "you will be ransomed off to your houses." The lords exchanged glances, a mix of relief and resignation evident on their faces.

Maekar turned to his uncle, his expression hardening. "Send as many Freys as you can to the Wall," he commanded coldly.

His eyes locked with Stevron Frey, the eldest of Walder Frey's sons present, a small, mocking smile playing on his lips. "It will help you, Lord Stevron, when old Walder finally dies," he added.

Stevron swallowed, his face pale, but said nothing.

Maekar took a step closer, his tone turning almost conversational. "And perhaps, Lord Stevron, you should consider finding another source of income in the future—something other than a bridge," he said, a smirk curling on his lips.

Stevron looked confused by his words.

Maekar turned to Brynden Blackwood, who stood nearby. "Has Lord Bracken's son died as well?" Maekar asked.

Brynden nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

Maekar gave a nod. "Now only his daughters remain," he said. "I'm sure your father could do something about that." He spoke with a small smirk. Brynden's face mirrored Maekar's, both realizing the magnitude of the victory they had achieved against their eternal rivals.

Edmure, breathing heavily, finally mustered the courage to speak, his voice trembling. "What... what is my fate, Your Grace?"

Maekar turned back to him, his expression indifferent. "The Wall," he said bluntly, his voice as cold as winter.

Edmure's eyes widened in shock, and he tried to stand straighter, his voice growing desperate. "I am the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands!" he shouted, a mix of pain and defiance in his tone.

Maekar stepped closer, his face suddenly fierce. "From now on, there is no Lord Paramount of the Riverlands," he declared, his voice ringing with finality. The gathered lords looked at each other, their faces etched with shock and confusion.

Brynden Blackwood dared to speak up, his brow furrowed. "Your Grace," he said carefully, "what do you mean?"

Maekar's gaze swept over the assembled men, his expression softening slightly. "All will be made clear when the war is over," he said. "I swear this to you—the Riverlands under my reign will be peaceful and prosperous. That I promise you all." A murmur of uncertainty settled somewhat, the lords exchanging glances, unsure what to make of his words.

Maekar looked to his guards. "Take them away," he ordered, gesturing to Edmure, Piper, Vance, and Frey. Edmure cast one last despairing look back before being pulled away.

Maekar then turned to the gathered lords. His gaze was sharp, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. "With this victory, the Riverlands are close to being secured," he said. "I want you to meet with the armies of the Vale and ensure the Riverlands are wholly ours."

Robb Stark frowned, looking at Maekar with curiosity. "Will you not be with us, Your Grace?" he asked.

Maekar shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "No," he replied. "In a week, I march into the Stormlands."

He then turned, his gaze shifting southwestward, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked toward the horizon. "But first, there is another place I need to stop by."

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.

.

Cersei stood as still as a statue, her eyes fixed on the pale, lifeless form of her son as the Silent Sisters conducted their ritual. The dim chamber was thick with the scent of incense, the heavy air adding to the oppressive sense of finality. Joffrey's body lay draped in white, his golden tunic glittering beneath the shroud, his face serene and calm.

The Silent Sisters moved around Joffrey with measured, deliberate motions, their faces hidden beneath the hoods of their grey robes. They murmured their prayers quietly, words lost beneath their veils, slipping through the cold room like unseen ghosts.

The crackle of the torches along the walls was the only other sound—a gentle, ever-present reminder of the life beyond this silent, mournful place.

Cersei's face was a mask of controlled grief—her eyes dry, her lips pressed together in a thin, tight line. There were no tears. She would not cry here. Not now, not ever. Her grief was hers alone, and she would not share it with anyone—not the Silent Sisters, not the lords and ladies.

After what felt like an eternity, Cersei turned on her heel, her heart a void, her face composed, her eyes burning with something far beyond sadness. She walked away from the wake, her dress trailing behind her in a rush of black and gold—the colors of mourning. The silence of the chamber was replaced by the hushed murmurs of the courtyard as she stepped into the cold morning air.

The courtyard was filled with lords—men who had gathered at her father's behest, summoned to Casterly Rock as part of Tywin's preparations to march on King's Landing. As she made her way through, lords approached her, their expressions grave, each one bowing, each offering condolences that rang hollow in her ears.

"My lady, my deepest sympathies," Lord Marbrand said, his eyes downcast, his words without warmth.

"Lady Cersei," murmured Lord Brax, giving her a deep bow. "Your loss is shared by us all."

"Our hearts weep for your son, my lady," added Lord Westerling, his face a mask of what he hoped was sympathy.

Their words washed over her, meaning nothing. Cersei nodded wordlessly, her eyes distant as she moved forward, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. She saw them, heard them, but she did not truly listen. There was no room for their words, no place in her heart for their pity.

These lords were not here out of care for her or for Joffrey. They were here for the war. They were here because her father had called, and like obedient hounds, they had come, ready to do his bidding.

Cersei slowly made her way to her father's solar, her footsteps echoing in the cold stone halls. She paused at the door, composing herself before opening it without a knock and stepping inside.

Tywin sat at his desk, bent over maps and letters, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up sharply at her entrance, his eyes narrowing.

"Cersei, what are you doing here?" Tywin's voice was curt, tinged with annoyance. His gaze was cold as he looked up from the table, clearly displeased by the intrusion.

Ignoring his tone, Cersei moved forward, her expression calm, her steps measured. "Are you marching to King's Landing, Father?" she asked, her voice even, betraying nothing of the turmoil within.

Tywin nodded, his gaze turning back to the table, dismissing the question as though it were insignificant. He pointed to the map before him, his fingers tracing the inked lines that marked the paths of war.

He looked up at her, his eyes piercing, as though daring her to challenge him. "King Aegon will lead the armies of the Reach and Dorne from the south to the capital. Tully will delay the Vale and the North. I will take the might of the Westerlands and join them in crushing the bastard king." His voice carried the confidence of a man whose plans had always succeeded, each word uttered with an air of finality.

Cersei stared at the map, her eyes tracing the lines. She felt her breath catch for a moment and forced the words out, her voice a little strained. "Are you set on this?" she asked.

Tywin looked at her, his brow furrowing in displeasure. "King Aegon had no part in what happened to Joffrey," he said sharply.

He paused, leaning back in his chair, his gaze drilling into her. "You are to mourn, Cersei. You will make sure Tommen is well. I cannot afford to lose another heir." His words were blunt and harsh, a dismissal that left no room for debate.

For a long moment, Cersei held his gaze, her eyes unblinking, her expression betraying nothing. Then, slowly, she nodded, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Of course, Father," she said softly, her voice controlled.

She turned away from him, her face composed, and moved across the room. She paused at the table, where a bottle of wine rested, untouched. Without a word, she picked it up, her fingers steady as she poured two goblets, the dark liquid swirling and shimmering. She could feel her father's eyes on her as she worked, his gaze assessing, but she did not meet it.

From her sleeve, she slipped a small vial—colorless, odorless—a gift she had received from her king and lover. She moved with practiced ease, her movements fluid, tipping the contents of the vial into the second cup. The liquid disappeared instantly, dissolving without a trace, leaving the wine as it was before—dark, rich, seemingly innocent.

She took a deep breath, composing herself before turning back to her father.

She placed one of the goblets before him, her fingers lingering on the stem for the briefest of moments. "To Joffrey," she said, her voice almost a whisper, her eyes holding his.

Tywin looked at her, his gaze unreadable, his sharp eyes narrowing for just a moment as though searching for something in her face. Then, without a word, he took the cup. He raised it slightly, giving her a small nod. "To Joffrey," he echoed, his voice cold, devoid of any emotion, almost a formality.

They drank. The wine was rich, dark, bitter—just like everything else in Cersei's world now. It slid down her throat smoothly, warmth pooling in her stomach. She watched as her father set the empty cup back on the table, his expression unchanged, his eyes shifting back to the maps before him.

Cersei waited, her gaze fixed on him, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing at the edges of her lips. She watched her father intently, waiting for that moment—the exact moment when the facade of Tywin Lannister, the great and invincible lord, would crumble.

He glanced at her, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "This is not a woman's task, Cersei," he said, his voice edged with that familiar contempt as he gestured dismissively at the war plans before him. "Leave me. I have much to do—"

Suddenly, Tywin's face faltered. His eyes widened, a sharp breath escaping him. He tried to move his hand, but it trembled violently, betraying him. His expression twisted into one of confusion, then pain, his gaze flickering to meet Cersei's. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, but his strength was already failing.

Tywin Lannister, the Lion of Casterly Rock, the man who once bent the realm to his will, gasped as his body betrayed him. He collapsed back into his chair, his hands going limp at his sides. His face contorted, eyes wide with shock and dawning horror.

Cersei watched him, her small smile never fading, as her father's face twisted with agony and fear. He tried to rise, his legs failing him, and he slumped further, unable to support himself.

'He did write to me it would be quick,' she thought to herself, a sense of dark satisfaction filling her.

She knelt beside him, her eyes locking onto his as he looked at her, betrayal written all over his face.

He tried to speak, but his voice came out as nothing but a croak. His eyes were filled with questions—desperation, shock, anger—all mingling there. His gaze bore into hers, seeking answers.

Cersei cupped her father's head, her fingers slipping into his thinning hair, her touch gentle, almost tender. She leaned in close, her lips barely an inch from his ear. Her voice was low, meant only for him. "It's not poison," she whispered, her tone soft, mocking. "You're not dying, Father. No, you'll live. But you will never be your old self again." Her lips curled into a wicked smile, her eyes glinting with malice. "You will never speak again, never stand again. You'll be bedridden until the day you die. Completely... useless."

Tywin's eyes widened further, a gurgling sound escaping his lips as he tried to respond, tried to move, but his body failed him completely. His once fierce gaze turned to one of terror, his mouth opening and closing, trying to form words that would not come.

"Cersei..." he managed to croak, his voice breaking—a desperate whisper that held no power, no authority.

Cersei stroked his hair, her fingers gentle as she looked into his eyes. "Shhh," she cooed softly, her tone almost comforting. "Don't worry, Father. I will take care of everything. I am your true heir," she said, her eyes cold, devoid of any affection. "I will make sure the Lannister name is feared. I will even kill that creature of a brother when he comes back from his little pleasure trip to Essos—something you didn't have the guts to do."

She watched as Tywin's eyes widened in horror, his pupils dilating. His breathing became more labored, his face paling further as the weight of her words sank in. Slowly, his eyes began to lose focus, his consciousness slipping away, his body giving in to the darkness.

Cersei's smile never faltered as she stood, composing herself quickly. She smoothed her dress, her face shifting into a mask of concern and shock. She glanced around the room, ensuring everything was as it should be before turning to the door.

"Guards!" she called out, her voice filled with panic. "Someone help! Something has happened to my father! Help! HELP!"

====

Cersei stood staring out over the Sunset Sea, the vast expanse of water stretching endlessly toward the horizon. From this high vantage point atop Casterly Rock, she could see Lannisport in the distance. She stood in one of the many courtyards of the Rock—this one elevated and solitary, away from the main castle—where tourneys were sometimes held. Only in Casterly Rock could a tourney be hosted this high up, surrounded by sheer cliffs with the sea crashing below.

"Your elixir worked well, Lord Qoherys," she said, her voice carrying just enough to be heard over the soft howl of the wind.

Quenton Qoherys, the man standing behind her, bowed slightly. "It is quite rare and expensive, my lady. Crafted for subtlety and precision. An art, truly."

Cersei turned her head slightly, her lips curling into a cold smile. "The king must trust you greatly to allow you to play such an important and secretive part in his plots."

Quenton gave a slight nod, his eyes steady. "I have always been the king's greatest supporter, Lady Cersei. My loyalty is, and has always been, unwavering."

Cersei's gaze shifted, her eyes narrowing as she looked toward the path leading up from the castle. She could see the lords approaching, their cloaks fluttering in the strengthening breeze. "Will he be coming on his...?" She trailed off.

Quenton bowed slightly in affirmation, a glimmer of amusement passing through his eyes. "Yes, my lady," he replied.

"I see," Cersei murmured, her gaze remaining on the approaching lords. "You may leave, Lord Qoherys."

Quenton bowed again, obediently stepping back. "As you wish." He turned, his footsteps silent as he made his way down the rocky path, passing the lords of the West as they ascended toward Cersei.

"My lords," Cersei called out, her voice ringing with a practiced tone of courtesy as the men gathered in the courtyard around her.

"Lady Cersei, my deepest hopes for Lord Tywin's recovery," said Lord Marbrand, bowing his head respectfully.

"Your father is a great man. The realm cannot afford to lose him," added Lord Lefford, his voice solemn and full of reverence.

Cersei's eyes flickered over each man as they spoke, her smile thin but courteous. "The Seven are watching over him," she said smoothly. "Thank you for your kind words."

"An unexpected place to meet, my lady," Lord Crakehall observed, his eyes scanning the rocky surroundings and the edge of the cliff.

"The view is calming," Cersei replied, her eyes momentarily drifting back to the sea. "And I have found myself needing calm lately."

She did not speak for some time, letting the silence hang heavy in the air, her eyes meeting each of the lords who stood before her. Her gaze was sharp, commanding—daring them to question her next words.

"House Lannister," she finally declared, her voice as sharp as a blade cutting through the murmurs of the gathered men, "will no longer support King Aegon."

The murmurs turned into shocked whispers, and several of the lords exchanged stunned looks.

"My lady, but your father—" Lord Lefford began, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"The decision has been made, Lord Lefford," Cersei said curtly, her eyes cold and unwavering. The air around them seemed to chill with her words.

Lord Brax spoke next, his expression puzzled. "But why, my lady? King Aegon is the true king..."

Cersei cut him off, her voice slicing through his objections. "I have received word that Prince Maekar possesses a dragon. The very same dragon from the tourney," she said, her eyes narrowing, daring any of them to contradict her.

The lords exchanged uncertain glances. Lord Marbrand shook his head, his eyes wide with disbelief. "My lady, Lord Tywin told us that it is King Aegon who possesses the dragon."

"My father believed what was made known to him," Cersei replied, her tone unyielding. "But the truth has been revealed. King Maekar rides the dragon, not Aegon."

The lords murmured among themselves, uncertainty and disbelief etched into their expressions. Cersei was about to speak again, to hammer her point home, when she heard it—a faint roar carried on the wind. It was distant, barely audible over the sound of the sea, but unmistakable.

The lords heard it too. Their whispers died away as they fell silent, the shock and confusion on their faces giving way to shared unease. All eyes turned to the sky.

Cersei's heart pounded, her eyes scanning the heavens, searching for the source. She remembered what Qoherys had told her—Maekar had a dragon, the dragon from the tourney. It had been a secret, kept even from her until recently. She was offended that Maekar hadn't told her himself, but she understood the necessity for secrecy.

The sound cut through the air again—a low, reverberating roar that seemed to rise from the depths of the sea itself. It was no longer faint.

The lords froze, their heads snapping toward the cliffs as the sound grew louder, more menacing.

"What is that?" Lord Crakehall asked, his voice tight with apprehension. His hand instinctively moved to grip the hilt of his sword, though they all knew that no steel forged by men could face what was approaching.

The roar came again, this time accompanied by the unmistakable, heavy beat of wings.

Suddenly, they saw it—a shadow at first, emerging from the horizon, growing larger with each passing heartbeat. A dragon, its wings spread wide, soaring toward them.

Cersei felt her breath catch in her throat. 'It's true', she thought, an exultant thrill coursing through her. There it was—undeniable proof.

The lords and Cersei instinctively moved back from the edge of the cliff, their eyes wide, their faces pale as they watched the beast approach.

Suddenly, it descended, disappearing from their vision, veiled by the sheer cliffs of the Rock. The sound of scraping claws and grinding stone filled the air, a reverberating echo that seemed to come from all directions. The ground beneath their feet trembled as the weight of the creature bore down on the very rock they stood upon.

And then it appeared.

First, a massive wing—black as onyx and gleaming like polished steel—latched onto the edge of the cliff. The stone groaned under the tremendous strain, the ancient rock shivering under the impossible weight. Then came another wing, claws digging deep into the stone, securing the beast's hold. The monstrous head of the dragon loomed into view next, rising over the cliff's edge, its green eyes burning like twin infernos. A plume of smoke exhaled from its nostrils, rolling in waves across the ground.

The dragon climbed higher, its wings folding partially as it scaled the side of Casterly Rock, its claws scraping and gouging the stone as it ascended. The lords could only watch in disbelief and fear, unable to move, their hearts pounding as the beast continued its ascent.

Atop its head, holding onto the beast's horns with the ease of a seasoned rider, was King Maekar. He wore dark armor, black steel emblazoned with the red three-headed dragon of his house. Atop his head was a crown—one that Cersei recognized instantly, even from this distance. It was the crown of Maekar I, black iron points set in a band of red gold.

Maekar moved gracefully as he stepped off the beast's head onto the edge of the cliff. The dragon remained where it was, its body clinging to the side of Casterly Rock, its wings partially folded, its green eyes fixed upon the gathered lords.

Cersei watched, her eyes narrowing in thought. She marveled at how a beast so large, so heavy, could cling to the sheer stone face of the Rock. And then, suddenly, the dragon let go. There was a moment of silence, and then the beast's massive form ascended once again, wings spreading wide. The sudden burst of wind generated by its upward thrust nearly threw Cersei to the ground. She staggered, her hair whipping wildly, her dress rustling like leaves caught in a storm.

The dragon roared—a sound that seemed to shake the heavens themselves—and all the lords around her cowered, their eyes wide and fearful. Cersei kept her gaze fixed on Maekar. He stood there calmly, unmoved by the dragon's display of power. His eyes met hers, and he gave her a nod. He then turned to face the lords.

"Kneel," Maekar said, his voice carrying over the wind—a simple command that was impossible to ignore. His voice was steady, powerful—brooking no disobedience.

The lords hesitated, glancing at one another, but the uncertainty did not last long. Maekar repeated the command, his voice ringing with authority. "Kneel."

The dragon roared once more, and that was all it took. The lords fell to their knees, one by one, their heads bowed in submission.

Cersei watched them, her lips curling into a cold smile.

This was power. True power.

Maekar's eyes met hers again. Now she would have her revenge against the one who had brought about her sweet son's demise.

The crippled king would die, and she would prefer it by dragonfire.

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