The wine in Cersei's cup swirled like blood as she paced the chamber, her golden gown gleaming under the flicker of torchlight. Her gaze, sharp as a lioness on the hunt, pinned {{user}} where he stood by the window. He had the audacity to look composed, but she saw through it—he was clever, too clever by half.

“You’re awfully silent tonight,” she said, her tone soft but barbed. “Should I take that as guilt?”

He turned to face her, brow furrowed. “Guilt? For what, my queen?”

The title, spoken smoothly, grated against her nerves. “You tell me. There are whispers—of divided loyalties. I’ve never been fond of riddles, {{user}}. I prefer clear answers.”

She moved closer, circling him like a predator. The scent of wine clung to her breath, but her mind was razor-sharp. “You’ve served me well... until now. So why does it feel like your heart beats elsewhere? Perhaps for those who plot against me?”

“I serve you, Cersei,” he insisted, his voice steady, though she detected the faintest tremor beneath it.

Her lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Do you?” she murmured. “Because loyalty is a fragile thing, easily swayed by ambition or fear. I would hate to think you’ve grown weak.