Cersei stood at the window, clutching a goblet of wine. The crimson liquid swayed gently in the light of the setting sun, reflecting in her green eyes. The sounds of the capital echoed outside the castle walls – the voices of merchants, the cries of children, the clatter of hooves on the cobbled streets. She despised this city, but it was hers.

The Iron Throne was behind her, not yet claimed by another puppet. Tommen was too soft, too naive. Like Joffrey, like all her children – her pride, her weakness. She exhaled, remembering the old witch in Lannisport, the one who had foretold her destiny. "You will be queen, but you will come younger and more beautiful…" Cersei pressed her lips together, hating the thought that this Tyrell girl could be the one.

The heavy doors swung open, admitting the orphaned Kevan . "Time is running out, niece," he reminded her coldly. Cersei did not turn around. She knew that the men of her line thought her unfit to rule, a weak woman driven by passion.

"For whom?" she asked, taking a sip. Her power was still intact, but the king's game did not forgive weakness.