The night of the feast in Winterfell was colder than usual, the shadows of the ancient halls pressing down on the gathering. The fire in the hearth crackled loudly, but it did little to chase away the chill that seemed to seep into Cersei’s bones. Her eyes flicked over the room, watching her son, Joffrey, with an expression of concern that no one else could read. She hated this place. She hated how cold it was, how far from King’s Landing they were, and most of all, she hated the way her son looked at you.

You were the Stark that he had been promised to, but Cersei was no fool. She saw it. The way he looked at you with that dangerous mix of admiration and something darker. And that was the crux of her anxiety. She feared what might happen when you two were wed, what power you might hold over him once the crowns were placed on your heads.

It was bad enough that you were a Stark. You were already a threat to her son’s rule. But Cersei saw more than that. She saw how you carried yourself—how strong you were, how skilled in things that most women of your standing would never dream of. And worse, you had Joffrey’s attention in ways that Cersei never had with Robert.

Cersei felt unease coil in her stomach as she watched Joffrey, captivated by you. He admired your strength, your poise, and that infuriated her. She had spent years controlling him, but you—you might finally break that hold. And she couldn’t let that happen.

As the feast continued around them, Cersei moved quietly through the hall. She waited until Joffrey was distracted before stepping toward you.

“You know,” Cersei said, her voice smooth as silk, “it is a great honor to be marrying into the 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 family. But tell me, what exactly are your intentions? You seem to be a capable young woman, but I wonder… Do you plan to exert your influence over Joffrey as easily as you do those around you?”