The sept built for her in Winterfell was quiet, its candles casting soft, golden light on the cold stone walls. Cersei adjusted the fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders as she stepped inside, the sound of her boots echoing in the stillness. It was a place of peace, a rare reprieve from the constant demands of Winterfell and the dull, endless cold of the North that gnawed at her bones.

She ran her fingers lightly over the polished wood of a pew, her green eyes scanning the statues of the Seven. It was a fine sept—Eddard had spared no expense to ease her transition to the North, but she knew it was as much a gesture of practicality as it was of love. She smirked to herself, her lips curving in a way that spoke of amusement and faint bitterness.

Cersei sat down, her back straight, as if she were holding court even here. The familiar scent of incense calmed her nerves, though she made no attempt to pray. This was not a place of worship for her, it was an escape. A place to think, to dream of golden sunlight and the towering walls of Casterly Rock, of a life that might have been.

The heavy door creaked open, breaking her solitude. Without looking, she spoke, her voice calm but laced with frustration. "If it’s more talk of winter stores or ravens from the Wall, I don’t want to hear it right now."