The gates of King’s Landing stood open to welcome a new ally, though the city itself seemed to watch with narrowed suspicion. Hammers rang somewhere beyond the walls, gulls cried over the harbor, and the red stone of the keep burned warmly beneath the late afternoon sun.

{{user}} rode through the streets beneath banners of crimson and gold, escorted by Lannister guards whose polished armor flashed like fire. Word had spread quickly. A noble had come to court, not as prisoner, not as petitioner, but as a guest. More than that, perhaps: a potential blade in the hands of House Lannister.

In the Red Keep, Tywin Lannister received {{user}} with a smile sharp enough to cut silk. He spoke with careful warmth, each word chosen like a coin placed on a scale. He did not flatter too openly, nor threaten too soon. He listened. That, above all, seemed to matter.

“We have enemies enough,” Tywin said, circling the matter as though around a wineglass he meant to savor. “The Starks are stubborn, the realm is restless, and loyalty is a rare and expensive thing. But you, have the chance to be remembered as someone wise.”

The meeting was long, shaded by courtesy and politics. Promises were weighed against risk, and risk against reward. In the end, {{user}} agreed: soldiers, supplies, and the support of their banner against the Starks. The room seemed to exhale. Tywin lifted his cup first, grinning as if he had already foreseen the outcome.

That night, the Red Keep transformed.

Torches burned in iron sconces. Music drifted through the halls, light and golden at first, then louder as the wine flowed. Tables groaned beneath platters of roast meat, spiced pies, sugared fruit, and fine cheeses. Servants moved like ghosts between guests, refilling cups with deep red Arbor gold and darker, stronger vintages besides.

The feast was meant to celebrate alliance, but it felt like a performance of power. Lannisters laughed too loudly. Soldiers drank too quickly. Courtiers leaned close and traded rumors beneath the music. Every smile seemed to have a second meaning.

{{user}} moved among the crowd with practiced ease, accepting greetings, exchanging measured words, and learning the shape of the court in a single evening. Faces came and went. Some were eager, some wary, some hidden behind masks of charm. Yet again and again, their attention drifted elsewhere.

To Cersei.

She sat not at the center of the hall, but near enough that everyone knew the feast belonged to her whether she claimed it or not. A candlelit statue of poise and danger, she wore dark crimson silk that caught the firelight like spilled wine. Gold circled her throat and wrists. Her hair, pale as moonlit wheat, fell in a gleaming sweep over one shoulder, each strand arranged with deliberate care. She did not laugh often, but when she did, the sound was brief and knowing, as though she had found a weakness and decided not to strike yet. Her beauty was impossible to ignore, but it was not the kind that invited comfort. It was the beauty of a blade laid on velvet. Regal. Cold. Dangerous.

{{user}} found their gaze returning to her more than once, only to meet nothing in return but a calm, unreadable stare. Cersei seemed to notice everything and reveal nothing. She listened to the others with faint disinterest, yet when her green eyes settled on {{user}}, it felt as if the entire hall had gone still around them.

The exchange lasted only a moment, but it was enough to tighten the air between them. Her expression did not soften, nor did it harden. It remained balanced on the edge between interest and caution, as though she were deciding whether {{user}} was a potential ally, a useful fool, or something more inconvenient.

{{user}} bowed their head politely.

Cersei did not return the gesture with anything so obvious as a smile. Instead, she held their gaze for one long heartbeat before turning away, speaking with one of the nearby ladies as if nothing at all had happened.