Cersei Lannister was in an unusually buoyant mood.
Yes, very buoyant indeed.
For a queen intoxicated by power, influence, and her own desires, nothing fascinated her more than a man of incomparable beauty and skill. And for Cersei, that man was Arthas.
Ever since the tournament, where she had watched the golden-haired youth sweep aside seven opponents with effortless dominance, she could not shake the image from her mind. Every move, every graceful strike, every gleam of his piercing eyes haunted her thoughts. Even during her recent trysts with Jaime, her brother, her lips occasionally whispered Arthas's name, betraying her secret fixation.
Now, lying atop a sumptuous bed in her private chambers, she allowed herself to admire her reflection in a full-length mirror, the same mirror she had personally had moved into place that very afternoon. Tyrion, in his usual mischievous fashion, had remarked that Arthas had yet to truly experience the pleasures of Westeros. Tonight, she intended to change that—or at least to enjoy the fantasy of it.
Cersei's beauty had not waned, despite the passage of years and the burdens of her position. Her skin was pale and flawless, reminiscent of the eternal snows of the North. She had draped herself in a gown of deep crimson silk, sheer enough to hint at her curves without revealing them entirely. She traced her fingers lightly across her chest, a self-satisfied smile curling her lips. In her mind, no man could resist her. Certainly not this youth, Arthas, who had stirred something in her that neither power nor wealth could satisfy.
A soft knock interrupted her reverie.
"Your Majesty," came a voice from the doorway, "Commander Arthas has arrived."
"Let him in," Cersei called, adjusting herself on the bed to appear both casual and alluring. She rested her head on her hand, facing the door, her gown shifting just enough to hint at the treasures beneath.
The door opened, and Arthas entered. Tall, upright, and composed, he carried the aura of someone unshaken by desire or intimidation. His sharp eyes, however, betrayed a flash of surprise at the sight before him. He had expected thirst, perhaps longing—but not such blatant seduction in the privacy of the queen's chamber.
"Come," Cersei said softly, patting the spot beside her. Her emerald eyes glimmered, filled with mischief and longing. "Sit with me."
Arthas advanced with measured grace, seating himself beside her. His youthful face carried an air of innocent curiosity, as if he had just arrived at a place he had longed to see.
"Cersei," he said, voice calm but attentive, "did you summon me for something?"
She leaned her head against his thigh, inhaling his scent. The haze in her gaze deepened, and she let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. "Since you arrived in King's Landing, we haven't truly spoken. Don't you miss me at all?"
Arthas smiled faintly. "How could I not? I have missed you greatly."
Her chest rose with excitement. She reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her lips inching closer to his. The air between them thickened with unspoken tension.
Yet, before the moment could escalate further, Arthas straightened abruptly. His sudden movement left Cersei grasping at empty air, her heart skipping a beat.
"I ran into Jaime on my way here," Arthas said, voice somber. "I greeted him warmly, but he seemed unsettled. He gave me a look… and left. Do you know why?"
Cersei's pride flared. "Why else? Because you rejected him today for my sake," she said, her voice a mixture of indignation and desire.
Arthas studied her carefully, his youthful eyes serious, unwavering. "Jaime is your closest brother, isn't he?" The deliberate emphasis on "closest" sent a ripple of unease through her.
Cersei's hand moved to cover herself instinctively, though the thin silk did little to conceal her. "I treat you both equally," she said sharply, masking her alarm with practiced poise. "I do not favor one over the other."
Arthas tilted his head, a faint smile playing at his lips, though there was no warmth in his gaze. "Then how do you explain the children you bore with Jaime?"
The question hit her like ice. Cersei's eyes widened, panic flickering across her emerald pupils. "Who… who told you that? How dare you slander me!"
"Cersei," Arthas said gently, almost softly, "I have eyes. I see the truth clearly. Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen… their hair, their features… all unmistakably his. Only a thick-skulled king like Robert could have ignored such signs for so long."
The room fell silent. Cersei's composure, usually so impenetrable, wavered. She slowly lowered her hands from her chest, her eyes darting away from his unyielding gaze. She realized that nothing she said could change what Arthas already knew.
"What… what do you want, Arthas?" she asked cautiously, trying to regain some semblance of control.
"I am not here to judge or interfere in your games," Arthas said, voice calm, measured. "I have no interest in your private matters with Jaime. But I am the Commander of the Gold Cloaks now. My duties leave me little time for… distractions."
Cersei's lips pressed together in frustration, though she did not respond. Arthas' words were not a request—they carried the weight of authority. He was not merely warning her; he was setting boundaries.
"Very well," Cersei said through gritted teeth, a mixture of anger and begrudging respect flashing in her eyes. "You have certainly made me see you differently today."
She turned her back to him, leaving him with a glimpse of the curves she had tried so hard to conceal. "Go," she said finally. "I promise I will not summon you again."
Arthas inclined his head once, a flicker of regret in his expression. "Cersei… Jaime loves you deeply. You should recognize it. Walk this path carefully. Do not take a misstep."
With that, he left, the soft click of his boots fading down the corridor. Cersei remained alone, her mind racing, her anger boiling. She stormed to the mirror, her reflection now marred by fury rather than beauty.
"This… this bastard," she muttered, her voice low and venomous. "To reject me, and to use my own children as a weapon… he will pay for this!"
She picked up the wine glass from the floor and smashed it with deliberate force. The crimson liquid spread across the carpet, staining it like blood, an apt reflection of her shattered pride.
Slowly, she turned back to the mirror, her gaze meeting her own reflection. What should have been a vision of beauty was now twisted with rage and desire for vengeance.
Cersei Lannister, queen of cunning, would not forget this. She had underestimated Arthas once—but never again.
Outside, in the bustling streets of King's Landing, the wheels of intrigue continued to turn. Nobles plotted, whispers spread, and power shifted quietly in shadows. But inside her chamber, the queen nursed her fury and her fantasies, preparing herself for the game that was far from over.
Arthas had asserted his authority, reminding Cersei that power came not only from seduction or status but from intellect, strength, and unshakable presence. And in this game, the Lannisters—and the Seven Kingdoms themselves—were about to discover that the Death Knight of House Lannister played by rules entirely his own.