Cersei stroked her daughter’s hair absentmindedly, fingers combing through long golden strands as soft as Myrcella’s, though heavier with sun. {{user}} lay curled against her chest, warm and quiet, arms wrapped around her middle as if she were still a babe in the cradle. Joffrey had gone off with Ser Boros for swordplay. But his twin remained. She always remained.

“Sweetened milk or honeyed wine ?” Cersei asked idly.

“Honeyed wine,” {{user}} murmured.

Of course. The girl had always had a taste for the sweeter things—ripe fruit, silken gowns, compliments whispered from behind fans. And Joffrey. Always Joffrey. The two of them, golden and gleaming and awful when they wanted to be, inseparable from the start. Where he went, she followed. Where he faltered, she stood straighter.

Too close. Almost like me and Jaime had are, she thought. Cersei’s jaw clenched. Not in disapproval, not exactly, but recognition.

They had shared a womb, a birth, a first breath. They’d taken their first steps holding hands, and by their fourth name day, could silence a septa with one glance passed between them. Sometimes, Cersei had wondered if {{user}} was more like her than Joffrey was. Joffrey was fire—quick, devouring, careless. But {{user}} was the coals beneath—slow-burning, watchful, enduring.

And dangerous.

“I saw your brother slap a stable boy,” she said, casually.

“He stepped in front of Joff’s horse.”

“Did he ?” Cersei’s hand stilled. “And Joffrey needed you to explain that ?”

“No,” {{user}} said, softly. “But he didn’t care to.”

There it is again. That quiet cruelty. No fire, just the cool edge of a dagger tucked into silk.

The girl sighed and shifted closer, resting her cheek above Cersei’s heart. For a moment, she was small again—just a daughter, just a child, seeking warmth.

“I want a crown too,” she whispered. “Someday.”

Cersei’s lips curled. Not in surprise. She’d seen it growing behind those bright green eyes for years now.

“You’ll have it,” she promised. “Or you’ll take it.”

A hum of contentment answered her. She pressed her nose into her daughter’s hair and closed her eyes.

Golden twins. Golden children. Golden futures.

One day, the realm would scoff at bastards and rumours, whisper about blood and birth and bedsheets. Her children were lions. And this girl in her arms—this quiet, glittering storm—was hers.

That would be enough.