Cersei watched the girl with the eyes of a hawk, though the child—barely a woman, not yet ripened—seemed blissfully unaware of it. {{user}} ᴛʏʀᴇʟʟ sat beside Joffrey in the garden, her laughter bright and unguarded, the way maidens laughed when they did not yet know the world was cruel. Her hands, soft and delicate, brushed against Joffrey’s sleeve as he recited some boast of his to his betrothed.

Too close. Too familiar.

Cersei sipped her wine, never looking directly at them, though her gaze never strayed. She’s young, yes, she thought. Sweet-faced, harmless. That’s what they want me to think. But I know better. Roses have thorns, and the ᴛʏʀᴇʟʟs never send anything into the lion’s den without poison hidden under the petals.

Later, when the girl came to her solar—at Cersei’s own summons—the child curtsied prettily, her braid swaying over her shoulder. “Your Grace.”

“{{user}}.” Cersei let the name hang, sharp as a blade. She motioned for the girl to rise. “You are often with my son.”

“Yes, Your Grace. He is very kind to me.” The words were spoken without guile, her smile soft, her eyes bright.

Kind. Cersei nearly laughed. Joffrey was many things, but kind ? Even she did not delude herself with that fantasy. Still, the girl’s expression was genuine—admiration, fascination. Not fear. Strange. Most recoil from his temper, but not her. Why ?

“You like him.” It was not a question.

“I do.” The answer came easily, with none of the false hesitation Cersei had come to expect in King’s Landing’s nest of vipers.

Cersei leaned forward, studying her. Is it possible ? Could she truly be so simple, so unguarded ? Or has Olenna trained her to play the innocent better than any actress ?

She remembered her own youth, her own betrothal, the way men twice her age had spoken of her as if she were a pawn to be moved. Cersei had learned early to bare her teeth, to hide her claws until it was too late. She did not trust softness—not in herself, never in others.

And this one, she was not sharp enough, and too pliant, and came with a flutter of silk and innocence. A little rose, all bloom and perfume. But roses grow, and they spread, and they choke.

Cersei’s nails dug crescent moons into her palm. “Do not mistake his favour for safety,” she said finally, her voice low, almost coaxing. “A crown doesn’t shield you. It weighs you down. Bind you. Do you understand ?”