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The dream was always the same.
It did not fade with the years; it only sharpened, like a blade honed against a whetstone of anxiety.
Cersei stood once more in the gloom of the tent near Lannisport.
The air was thick, suffocating, smelling of sour milk, strange spices, and the copper tang of old blood.
Beside her, Melara Hetherspoon was trembling, her whimpering pathetic and grating, but Cersei stood tall.
She was a lioness, even then.
She was Tywin Lannister's daughter, and she would not show fear before a swamp witch.
Maggy the Frog sat huddled amidst her jars and dried herbs, her jowls heavy, her eyes yellow and wet.
She looked more toad than woman.
"You can ask three questions," the old woman croaked, her voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone.
She took a pull from a clay cup, her yellow eyes fixing on Cersei with a malice that transcended her station.
"You're not going to like my answers.
Ask your questions and leave."
Cersei stepped forward, her chin raised.
She had questions that burned in her blood.
She needed to know the shape of her glory.
"Will I be queen?" Cersei asked.
It was the only question that truly mattered.
Maggy smiled, revealing gums that were black and rotting. "Yes," she hissed.
"You will be queen twice."
The answer hung in the stale air. Little Cersei's face lit up, a flush of triumph coloring her cheeks.
Twice? It was better than she had dared to hope. For years, she had nursed the belief that she was destined for Rhaegar Targaryen, the dragon prince who haunted her maiden dreams.
If he died, perhaps she would marry a new king. Or perhaps...
Her mind raced through the logic of a child. Rhaegar first.
Then, perhaps, Robert? Or maybe the gods would be kind, and the Targaryens would keep to their old ways, allowing her to wed Jaime after she had ascended the throne?
"I will be queen," Cersei said, her brow furrowing as the joy curdled into confusion. "But how is it possible that I am queen twice?"
Maggy leaned forward; the torchlight caught the moisture in her rheumy eyes.
"You will be queen, once by duty and the other by ambition and desire".
The mockery in her gaze was palpable, a heavy weight that pressed against Cersei's chest.
"You will wear a crown of gold, and then a crown of cold iron."
Cersei dismissed the riddle with a sharp intake of breath.
Witches spoke in circles to hide their ignorance. She moved to the next matter, the legacy she was owed.
"How many children will I have?" she demanded.
Maggy did not answer immediately. She took another long draught from her cup, the liquid running down her chin.
Then, she let out a laugh that sounded like cracking bones.
"Oh, aye," Maggy whispered.
"Sixteen for him, and three for you."
Cersei scoffed, rolling her eyes. "That makes no sense," she snapped.
"I will have the King's children, and he will have mine."
She opened her mouth to tell her father to have this woman's tongue cut out for being a liar and a fraud.
How could she have three and her husband sixteen? Unless her husband was a whore-monger, a thought that disgusted her.
But before the threat could leave her lips, the tent seemed to darken.
Maggy's laughter died in her throat.
The old woman's body went rigid.
Her yellow eyes widened, not in mockery, but in genuine, primal horror.
She stared past Cersei, looking at somethingâor someoneâthat wasn't there.
"What is it?" Melara squeaked, pulling on Cersei's sleeve.
Maggy began to shake.
She clawed at her own throat, her voice changing, becoming hollow and distant, as if she were speaking from the bottom of a well.
"He does not belong..." Maggy gasped, the words bubbling up like blood.
"A soul lost... a soul from beyond the veil."
"Who?" Cersei demanded, stepping back.
"Beware the Warborn," Maggy shrieked, her voice splitting into a dual tone.
"He wears the skin of a man, but his spirit comes from a world without magic!
He comes from a land of iron towers and lightning without storms!"
Cersei felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.
"You speak madness."
"Madness?" Maggy cackled, but tears of blood began to leak from her eyes.
"He has read the book of our lives, girl!
He knows the song before it is sung!
He looks upon kings and sees only corpses, for he knows how the game ends!"
The witch lunged forward, grabbing Cersei's wrist with a grip like iron.
Cersei tried to pull away, but the old woman held fast.
"Charming he is, but his eyes are oldâolder than his years, filled with the knowledge of a thousand stories.
He mocks the gods because he knows they are ink and paper!
Queen you will be, but he will rewrite the ending!
He treats the throne like a toy, and war like a game he has already won!"
Maggy fell back, convulsing, foaming at the mouth.
"He is the Stranger in the Skin!
He is the reader of the fates!
Death follows him not as a shadow, but as an old friend he left behind in another life!"
With a scream of terror that shattered the glass jars around them, Cersei awoke.
She sat bolt upright, gasping for air as if she had just surfaced from deep water.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, and her silk shift was plastered to her skin with cold sweat.
She looked wildly around the room.
The velvet drapes of the Red Keep stood still in the moonlight.
She was safe.
She was the Queen.
She looked to the other side of the massive bed. It was empty.
The sheets were cold.
Her fat husband, Robert, was not there.
He was likely stumbling through the darker corridors of the castle, seeking the warm embrace of a whore to drown his sorrows.
Good.
She preferred the solitude.
Cersei threw off the covers and swung her legs out of bed.
The stone floor was cool beneath her feet. She reached for her robe, wrapping the crimson silk tight around her body as if it were armor.
She needed to move.
The echo of Maggy's words rang in her ears, louder than the silence of the room.
A soul from a world without magic.
He has read the book of our lives.
The words gnawed at her, more terrifying than any prophecy of death. Valonqar, she understood.
A little brother, she understood.
But a man who knew?
A man who looked at Westeros and saw a game he had already played?
Terrified, driven by a sudden, fierce need to protect what was hers, she left her chambers.
The corridors of Maegor's Holdfast were silent, guarded by the white cloaks, but Cersei trusted no one.
She pushed open the door to the nursery.
The room was warm, smelling of lavender and sweet milk.
In the dim light, she saw the cribs. She moved past Tommen, who was sleeping soundly, and went straight to Myrcella.
Her daughter lay amidst soft pillows, her golden curls fanned out like a halo.
She looked so peaceful, so perfect. A Lannister in full.
Cersei reached out, her fingers hovering over the girl's cheek, trembling slightly.
Maggy's words haunted her still, circling her mind like vultures.
Even though Cersei had ordered the witch's death years ago, the woman continued to torment her.
"He treats the throne like a toy, and war like a game he has already won."
Cersei stared at the shadows in the corner of the room.
Was he out there?
This "Warborn"? A man with a handsome face but eyes that looked at her not with lust or fear, but with the bored recognition of a man watching a play he had seen a dozen times?
A shiver of true dread went through her.
How do you fight an enemy who knows your future?
How do you kill a man who knows the trap before you even set it?
She smoothed Myrcella's hair, a fierce possessiveness gripping her heart.
Let him come.
Let this traveler from the iron world come. She was a lioness of the Rock.
She would tear the everything apart before she let any stranger rewrite her destiny.
Authors Note:-
Well well well...what do we have here...đ
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