The afternoon was fair and warm within the walls of Red Keep, where Queen Cersei sat in sweet repose, having supped on her afternoon draught in the company of her children—Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella—the last vestiges of solace in a world fraught with vipers and schemes. In her own chamber she lingered, a goblet of rich Arbor gold in hand, pondering with keen mind the recent stirrings: Eddard Stark, the grim lord of the frozen North, prying into the affairs of King Robert’s bastards. Unease coiled in her breast, for had not Jon Arryn done the same ere his sudden death?

Cersei rose, the silken hem of her gown trailing as she paced the chamber like a caged lioness, her mind spinning in pursuit of her father’s cold and cunning wisdom—Lord Tywin, who ever stood unbowed, unbroken, above all. Her green eyes burned as she fixed upon her own reflection in the polished mirror.

"A Lannister is gold," she murmured, tracing the noble curve of her face, studying the glint in her eyes. "What is a wolf to a lioness? What is an eagle to a beast born to rule? No creature of land nor sky shall dare rise against me!"

A laugh, sharp and lilting, slipped past her lips, but faded swift as she studied her own emerald gaze, where uncertainty lurked beneath pride.

"Seven hells,"she whispered. "Does Stark suspect something?"