Chapter 67

Chapter 67: Letters of Invitations

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Alicent POV

It was morning when I woke to the soft light of the sun rising over the hills of Neméos.

The sunlight cast a warm glow across the chamber, stretching over the stone floor and catching on the edges of the velvet curtains.

I sat up slowly and stretched my arms. As I did so, a cool breeze drifted in through the cracked casement.

I shivered from the sudden chill and sank back into the blankets. The thin white nightgown I wore was no match for the cold.

Looking outside, I noticed the trees in the distance. The green leaves, once so vivid, were beginning to fade and shift in color.

Summer was fading—I could feel it in the air. The warmth had thinned, and autumn would arrive soon.

Wrapped in the blankets, I turned my gaze toward the fireplace.

There were no flames, only faint traces of ash and dying embers. The fire must have burned out sometime during the night.

Even so, I was still warm beneath the covers. And I knew why. I turned my head toward the other side of the bed.

My beloved, Richard.

It must have been his warmth that held me through the night. He was still asleep, and peaceful.

He lay on his back, one arm flung carelessly across the sheets, the other resting above his head.

The blanket had slipped low, caught just at his waist, leaving most of his chest bare to the morning light.

His skin glowed in the soft sunlight, the golden hue making every line of him stand out—his chest, his arms, the shape of his abs, the slope of his neck, the sharp edge of his jaw. His handsome face.

I stayed there for a while, watching him.

Admiring him. And in spite of the chill in the air, I felt warmer than before.

As I was lost in my trance, I noticed the faintest movement of his lips.

Then came the murmurs—faint and jumbled, barely more than whispers—but I caught fragments here and there. One word stood out clearly: "Valyrian steel."

He must be having one of those dreams again, I thought.

I didn't know what they were about, only that Richard dreamed of them every moon or so.

I had asked him once, gently, but he only smiled and shook his head. Secrecy wrapped his answer, and I was met with vague denial. 

Still, I never pressed him. If he wished to keep it to himself, I would respect that. 

His murmurs continued, low and muffled, and I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh. 

The way he spoke in sleep, so serious and dramatic, made the expressions on his face all the more endearing.

He said something else then—something about fire and blood—and shifted slightly. His brow furrowed, confused, and a soft breath escaped him.

But by then, I wasn't thinking about his dreams anymore. 

I was too distracted.

By the way his lashes curled. By the slope of his cheek. By the warmth of his skin so close to mine.

I tried to resist, for a moment. But the urge to touch him was stronger.

A fight I lost immediately.

My hand moved on its own, tracing the line of his jaw.

I brushed a curl from his forehead, then slowly let my fingers drift down over his cheek, and along the curve of his throat. 

His skin was warm beneath my touch—soft in places, firm in others.

Carefully, I shifted upward, easing my body over his, straddling one of his thighs beneath the blankets.

The thin white linen of my nightgown brushed against his skin, sending a quiet shiver through me.

With both hands, I cradled his face and leaned down, pressing my lips gently to his.

It was a soft kiss—nothing urgent, nothing meant to wake him. Just a kiss made for mornings like this. 

A kiss of peace and warmth.

Image of the scene:

…

Third POV

Inside the nursery at Casterly Rock, all was chaos. Tyrion, not yet two, sat in the center of it

all—red-faced, shrieking, and kicking at a tangle of blankets as if they personally had insulted him.

Genny, his wet nurse, looked like she'd aged a year in the past hour. She paced in slow, hopeless circles, mumbling prayers to the Mother. 

Nearby, Lysa, another of Tyrion's caretakers, waved a stuffed lion back and forth like she was trying to ward off a ghost with it.

"Seven save us," Maela muttered, swiping a sweaty curl from her brow. "He's been like this since Lady Joanna left. I think he's making himself louder."

"Should we fetch her?" Lysa asked, voice rising, her braid nearly unraveling from all the bouncing and panic.

"No," Maela said sharply, then hesitated. "No. Our lady has important matters to attend to. We can handle one small—" Tyrion let out a banshee-like screech. "—boy."

"But what should we do? We tried your milk, the lion rattle, even his red blanket. Nothing's working," Lysa said, throwing up her hands.

Unbeknownst to them, Cersei had just entered the room.

She had only moments ago finished her embroidery lesson and was on her way to her mother's solar, eager to show off the fine piece she'd completed—a display of her lady-like accomplishments.

The guards and passing servants had offered her polite bows as she skipped down the corridor, red and gold skirts trailing behind her.

But then the high, keening cry of her baby brother reached her ears. She stopped at once. Tyrion.

Without hesitation, Cersei turned on her heel and marched toward the nursery.

"Ahem," she said, chin tilted high as she stepped into the room.

Maela and Lysa turned at once, relief blooming on their faces. 

There stood Cersei—golden-green eyes bright with purpose, embroidery tucked under one arm, skirts wrapped in the regal red and gold of House Lannister.

"Lady Cersei!" they exclaimed in unison.

"Please, my lady, help us," Lysa begged. "He's been crying since morning. Nothing we do seems to help."

The moment Tyrion caught sight of her, his cries turned to gurgled joy. "S'tah!" he squealed through hiccups.

The women turned, stunned, as Tyrion's tantrum dissolved before their eyes. He wriggled and stretched his pudgy arms toward his sister.

"Up, up, S'tah!" he chirped.

Cersei walked past the two caretakers and knelt beside Tyrion. He had his short arms outstretched, ready to be carried.

"You're a handful, you know that," Cersei said with a sigh, though her voice was fond. 

She hoisted him up with practiced ease, balancing him on one hip while her other arm still cradled her embroidery.

Tyrion giggled, delighted.

"Now," Cersei said, arching an eyebrow, "say sorry to Maela and Lysa. You were being very bad."

"Sowwy," Tyrion mumbled, the word wobbling out of him like a bubble.

The two women chuckled, the tension lifting from the room like mist.

"Clean this place up," Cersei instructed briskly, turning toward the door. "I'll look after my brother."

And without waiting for protest, she swept from the room, Tyrion nestled on one hip and her embroidery tucked against the other.

Meanwhile, in her solar, Lady Joanna Lannister sat at her writing desk, carefully penning another letter on fine parchment. 

To her right lay a list of names—her husband's bannermen—each one marked to receive a formal invitation. To her left, a neat stack of blank parchment waited its turn.

The letters, written with care and precision, were invitations for Jaime and Cersei's tenth nameday celebration. 

Though the event was still two moons away, Joanna wanted to give the lords ample time to prepare their gifts and make arrangements for the feasts and festivities she had already begun planning.

As she dipped her quill into the inkwell and began the next letter, a soft knock interrupted the quiet.

"Mother, may I come in?" came the voice of her daughter through the door.

"Come in," Joanna called, setting down her quill and parchment as she turned her attention toward the door.

Cersei stepped inside, cradling little Tyrion in her arms. His chubby face lit up at the sight of their mother.

"Mama!" he chirped brightly, his voice sweet and eager. The sound tugged at Joanna's heart, and for a brief moment, she wanted nothing more than to sweep him into her arms and cover his cheeks with kisses.

"Why is Tyrion with you, darling? Shouldn't he be with Genny and Lysa? And have you finished your lesson with the septa?" Joanna asked gently.

"He was crying and being loud," Cersei said with a shrug. 

"His caretakers couldn't calm him, so I decided to look after him." Hearing this Joanna gave a little chuckle.

"And yes, I finished my embroidery lesson," she added, holding up her handiwork with her free hand.

"May I see it?" Joanna asked, a slight smile warming her face.

Cersei nodded and approached the desk. She set the embroidery down and pushed it across the surface toward her mother.

Joanna reached out and caught the cloth as it slid toward her. She studied the design, her eyes softening with pride. 

It was beautiful—neatly sewn and full of intention. Cersei had embroidered the golden lion of House Lannister, proud and regal.

"It's lovely," Joanna said, her voice full of genuine praise.

Cersei beamed at the compliment, her chest lifting slightly with pride.

All the while, Tyrion giggled in her arms and reached toward Joanna. "Up up!" he squealed repeatedly, wiggling his fingers.

Cersei gave him a quick scold. "Mother's busy with her papers. She can't carry you," she told him.

At once, Tyrion's face fell, his lower lip trembling, tears threatening to spill.

Seeing this, Joanna gently suggested, "Why not read your brother his favorite book to calm him?"

Cersei was quiet for a moment. Her lips pressed together as she closed her eyes briefly, willing down the flicker of frustration.

She had planned to join Jaime's sword lesson—and had even rushed her embroidery to make time for it.

But Mother had asked. And Tyrion's round face was already bright with expectation.

"Fine, Mother," Cersei said with a nod.

She carried Tyrion to the nearby couch and set him down, then crossed the room to the bookcase.

Pulling down a slim volume with a worn leather spine, she returned and plopped beside him, flipping it open with practiced hands.

"Dwag-gun! Dwag-gun!" Tyrion exclaimed, clapping his tiny hands with delight.

"That's right," Cersei said, her voice touched with amusement. "I'm going to read to you about Aegon and his dragon, Balerion."

Joanna watched them for a moment—Cersei sitting tall and focused, reading with a quiet pride, while Tyrion listened wide-eyed with happiness.

The sight filled her with quiet contentment. 

Smiling softly, Joanna returned to her work, dipping her quill once more, and resumed her writing.

…

Author Note: Okay I'm back. The next chapter will include Elia POV. That's all, see yall tomorrow, hopefully.