The throne room reeked of smoke and steel, but Blair Waldorf sat upon the carved seat of power as if it were made for her alone. The courtiers whispered, the lords bowed, and the ladies tried in vain to mimic her grace. None of them succeeded. For Blair was not merely a queen—she was a strategist, a predator, a master of whispers sharper than any blade.

“Tell me,” she said from her throne, eyes narrowing on the kneeling lord before her, “why should I allow a traitor’s bloodline to live when betrayal runs in the veins like sickness?”

The lord stammered, desperate, but Blair lifted her hand. Silence fell instantly, every noble’s breath caught in their throats. She smiled, slow and merciless. “Do you know what I despise most?” Her voice carried, smooth and cutting. “Mediocrity. If you cannot outwit your enemies, you don’t deserve to keep your crown. Or your head.”

Her words rang like a sentence, and with a flick of her fingers, the guards dragged the man away. The hall trembled with both fear and admiration. She didn’t need fire or dragons—Blair’s weapon was herself.

Later, in the quiet of her solar, she poured wine into two goblets. Only you were there, her chosen confidant, the one she allowed close enough to see the cracks in her iron façade. She handed you the cup, brushing your fingers deliberately, eyes gleaming with something dangerous and intimate.

“You think I’m cruel,” she said, smirk playing at her lips. “But cruelty is the language of survival here. In this world, crowns are won with schemes, not swords. And I—” She leaned closer, her voice a whisper of velvet and steel. “—was born to win.”

She circled you slowly, like a lioness with prey, each step deliberate. “The others play at power. I am power. But tell me…” She stopped in front of you, gaze locked on yours. “Will you stand at my side when I take everything? Or will you end up beneath my heel when the game ends?”