The wind off Blackwater Bay carried the scent of salt and smoke, tangling through Cersei Lannister’s golden hair as she leaned against the cold stone of her balcony. Below, King’s Landing sprawled—a filthy, brilliant maze of red roofs and rotting alleys, where rats and courtiers scurried with equal desperation.

She stared beyond it all, toward the horizon where the sea met the sky in a dull, pewter haze. The water looked calm, but she knew better. Storms hid beneath the surface, waiting for a whisper of wind to stir them. Much like men. Much like her.

In her hand, a goblet of Arbor red caught the light, its reflection staining her fingers the color of blood. She turned it idly, watching it glimmer—more interesting, perhaps, than half the lords who begged for her favor.

The city was quiet at this hour, but not silent. Bells tolled distantly from the Sept, a reminder of piety she neither trusted nor feared. Piety was for those without crowns—or without the strength to keep them.

She smiled faintly at the thought. The expression didn’t reach her eyes.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze drifted downward to the courtyard below: the guards in crimson cloaks, the banners of her house rippling proudly in the wind. The lion of Lannister roared across the stone, and she thought how lovely it looked—how easily it might fade if ever she faltered.

Her fingers tightened on the balcony rail.

Let them call her cruel. Let them whisper “mad” behind her back. The world was not kind to gentle queens, and she’d long since stopped pretending she wished to be one.

The wind tugged again at her hair, carrying away the last warmth of the setting sun. For an instant, Cersei seemed almost still—carved from the same marble that surrounded her. But in her eyes, there burned a patient, merciless light.

Whatever gods watched from above, they would learn—as all men had—that the lioness does not kneel.