Cersei sat in her chambers, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of spiced wine lingered in the air, untouched in the goblet by her side. She watched her daughter—her remaining heir—stand rigid before her, jaw set, eyes defiant. It was a look Cersei had seen before, a reflection of herself in a younger, untamed form.

“You will take the throne,” Cersei said smoothly, swirling the wine in her cup though she did not drink. “It is your birthright. Ours.”

{{user}} lifted her chin. “I’ll take the throne, but I won’t be your puppet.”

Cersei smiled, slow and knowing. “You think you have a choice? You are my daughter. A lion does not bow, she rules. But she rules wisely—with guidance.”

“With your hand pulling the strings.”

Cersei’s nails dug into the armrest, but her expression remained composed. “I would only ever protect you. Who else will? You saw what they did to Joffrey. They will do the same to you if you let them.”