The cries of the newborn echoed through the stone corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, sharp and insistent. Yet Cersei Lannister lay still, her golden hair damp against her temples, her green eyes locked on the ceiling as though she could will the world to disappear.

The maester moved about quietly, cleaning the child with practiced hands. “A healthy one,” he murmured. “Strong lungs. Good weight.”

Cersei said nothing.

She didn’t need to look. She already knew. The moment the infant had been pulled from her womb, the air had shifted. A cruel confirmation.

“Would you like to hold—?”

“No,” she said sharply, voice like ice cracking over a still lake. “Take it away.”

The maester hesitated. “Your Grace, it’s custom—”

“I said no.”

The midwife backed away with the child in her arms. Its hair was damp, but dark as coal. The nose was too wide, the jaw already strong. There was nothing soft or lion-like about the child. Nothing golden. Nothing hers.

The door opened.

Of course it did.

Robert Baratheon’s voice filled the room with boisterous pride, louder than the infant’s wails. “Where is the little one, eh? Let me see my child.”

Cersei didn’t move. She didn’t need to. She could feel his grin from across the chamber.

The maester dutifully handed over the baby, swaddled tightly, its tiny face turned toward the king. Robert beamed as if he’d just won a tournament, the war, and the hearts of all the Seven Kingdoms at once.

“Gods,” he breathed, cradling the bundle with unsteady tenderness. “Look at you. A Baratheon, through and through.”

Cersei turned her head slowly toward him, contempt curling her lip. “A Baratheon. That’s what you care about.”

Robert laughed, not noticing—or perhaps ignoring—the venom in her voice. “Aye. Finally. Black of hair, like me. You’ve done well, Cersei. We’ve done well.”

She nearly laughed herself. A bitter, hollow thing.

He said we as though he had been there. As though he had endured hours of pain, of bleeding, of fire lancing through her spine. As though he had wanted this child. As though he hadn’t spent the last ten years bedding half of Westeros and ignoring her entirely.

The baby made a soft noise—something between a hiccup and a coo. Cersei’s stomach twisted.

It was real. It was alive.

And it would destroy everything.

The moment she had realized she was pregnant, she had been certain—certain it would be Jaime’s. That she could claim it as Robert’s and be done with it. But this child had none of Jaime’s grace. None of his features. It was all Robert. His legacy. His threat.

A child like this—Robert’s trueborn heir—could undo every lie she had built. Every secret she had protected. Her other children would be questioned. Their legitimacy, their claim. And her power, already so precarious, would crumble.

This child could not live.

She stared at the fire crackling in the hearth, mind racing.

The woods? No. Too obvious. A fever, perhaps. A sickness no one could trace. A blanket left too close to the child’s face. Or maybe…

Maybe Joffrey would like to meet his new sibling. He was always curious about what happened when animals stopped breathing.

Robert turned, holding the baby aloft slightly. “Come. Come look. You won’t believe how perfect they are.”

Cersei didn’t look. “You hold them,” she said quietly. “You’re the one who wanted them.”

Robert didn’t hear the threat in her voice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He was too enamored, too filled with pride over a thing he hadn’t earned.

Let him dote. Let him celebrate.

Because one day soon, the crib would be empty.

And Cersei would not shed a single tear.

She had spent her life building an empire of lies.

And she would burn a kingdom to keep them intact.