The Mad King was dead.

Not by the glory of a sword on the battlefield, but with a strike from behind, in the shadows of a throne that no longer commanded loyalty.

The Red Keep did not breathe a sigh of relief, not yet. Screams still echoed from hidden corridors, Lannister soldiers paced bloodied halls with axes in hand, and the scent of burned books, curtains, and bodies still hung thick in the air.

At the heart of this ruin, Robert Baratheon, the wounded hero, paced the Great Hall. The Iron Throne still cast its shadow, but sitting upon it no longer signified triumph, only a burden upon a broken spirit.

At night, he dreamed of Lyanna. Blue flowers in her hair. Smiles that had never belonged to him. She had been taken. She had been killed.

And now, on the eve of his coronation, with a cup of Dornish wine in hand and a Lannister gold ring clenched in his fist, he was meant to wed a woman who stirred nothing in his heart. Cersei, flawless in face and deadly in smile.

The guests gathered in the eastern gardens. Torches burned through the winter night, the scent of wine and hot meat thick in the air. Music played, but in Robert’s ears, only a single sound rang clear. A laugh, gentle, clear, like water rippling over stone.

He turned. Amid the trees, in the shadow of marble columns, stood a girl. Her hair was golden and long, her eyes bright but unguarded. Her cheeks still bore the color of youth, and her lips curled into a smile that was genuine, not meant to conceal anything. {{user}}, Tywin’s youngest daughter. Cersei’s sister.

That very night, Robert cast aside his goblet, left the hall, and walked with heavy steps to the council chamber. His advisors were gathered, and Tywin Lannister, calm, proud, ever-prepared, stood among them.

“I want your daughter,” Robert said. All assumed he meant Cersei. Tywin, too.

“Cersei?”

“No,” Robert said, his voice firm. “{{user}}.”

A frozen silence fell over the room. Even the candle flames seemed to flicker more cautiously. Tywin was silent.

The new king’s wedding, not to Cersei Lannister but her younger sister, spread through the court like bitter honey. The swords remained sharp, and smiles turned brittle behind frozen masks.

Yet the hall was magnificent.

Hundreds of candles burned in golden chandeliers, their light glinting off knightly armor. The sweet Dornish wine mingled in the air with the perfume of night-blooming flowers. Banners of the crowned stag and golden lion hung side by side.

At the far end of the hall, Robert stood. His royal garb felt heavy and unwelcome, brocade and gold pressed upon a warrior’s frame. His sword was still at his side. Behind his eyes lay years of battle and loneliness. But when the doors opened, and he saw her, his gaze lit up. {{user}} walked slowly.

She wore a soft white gown, unadorned but striking. A sheer veil draped over her golden hair, catching the last glow of sunset. She wore no jewels, only a silver pin in her hair, and a simple moonstone necklace.

She passed through a crowd that watched with a mixture of curiosity, doubt, and judgment. Cersei, seated at the hall’s edge. Her gaze was sharp as blades, boring into her sister’s back. Tywin, ever the statue of ice, gave no sign of approval or protest.

The High Septon began the rites. His voice echoed slow and solemn through the heavy air.

When the silver ribbon bound their hands, when the sacred words were spoken, {{user}} blinked. from the weight of a gaze in the crowd. Cersei was still watching. And {{user}} knew this wedding was not the end of a rivalry, but the beginning of a silent war. A war born not of power, but of pride scorned. "I declare you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride," The Septon said.