Chapter 40: The Lion’s Desperation

Early, 301 AC

The bells of King's Landing tolled, their mournful chimes echoing through the narrow streets and grand halls of the Red Keep. But the city was not mourning King Joffrey Baratheon out of love—fear and uncertainty gripped the hearts of the people, for the boy-king's sudden, violent death had plunged the realm into chaos.

In the heart of the Red Keep, Cersei Lannister stood before the cold, lifeless body of her son. His face was still twisted in the grotesque mask of his final moments, purple and bloated from the poison that had stolen his breath. Her golden hair framed her pale, tear-streaked face, but the grief in her heart was overshadowed by something far more dangerous.

Rage.

A Mother's Fury

"She did this," Cersei hissed, her voice a venomous whisper as she stared at Joffrey's corpse. "Sansa Stark. The little wolf."

Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms until blood welled beneath her fingers. She had underestimated Sansa's cunning, treating the girl like a naive pawn in the game of thrones. Now, with Joffrey dead and Sansa vanished into the night, Cersei's regret burned like wildfire.

Tommen Baratheon, her youngest son, sat quietly beside her, his wide blue eyes filled with confusion and fear. He was too young to understand the dangerous game unfolding around him, too innocent to grasp the weight of the crown soon to be placed upon his head.

Cersei turned away from Joffrey's body, her mind racing with thoughts of vengeance. She had been blind to the threat Sansa posed—and now, with the whispers of Aemon Targaryen's rise across the Narrow Sea, her fear grew with every passing hour.

"They will pay," she muttered, more to herself than to Tommen. "Every last one of them."

The Small Council in Turmoil

The Small Council convened in the dimly lit chambers of the Red Keep, the atmosphere thick with tension. Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, sat at the head of the table, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping over the gathered lords.

"We must act quickly," Tywin said, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "The boy's death has left a power vacuum. Tommen will be crowned, but we need to secure our alliances."

Mace Tyrell shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his jowly face pale. "My daughter—Margaery—she was to be queen. What will become of her?"

"She will still be queen," Tywin replied smoothly. "She will marry Tommen."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, a sharp, cutting laugh echoed through the chamber.

Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, rose from her seat, her eyes gleaming with defiance. "You expect us to tie our house to yours after this debacle? The Lannisters are crumbling, Lord Tywin. And now, with this Aemon Targaryen gaining power, your grasp on the throne weakens by the day."

Tywin's jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. "You will marry Margaery to Tommen, Lady Olenna. Refuse, and House Tyrell will face the consequences."

Olenna's eyes narrowed. "I'd rather face the consequences than tie my house to a sinking ship."

With that, she turned and swept from the room, her departure leaving a heavy silence in her wake.

House Arrest

Tywin wasted no time. The very next morning, guards descended upon the Tyrell quarters within the Red Keep, placing Margaery, Olenna, and their retinue under house arrest. The once-proud Tyrell banners were stripped from their walls, replaced with the golden lion of Lannister dominance.

But beneath the surface, unrest brewed.

Margaery paced the confines of her chambers, her mind racing. She had played the game well, charming Joffrey, navigating the treacherous waters of the court with grace. But now, the rules had changed. The Lannisters were no longer the unquestioned power in Westeros.

"Aemon Targaryen," she whispered to herself, the name tasting like fire on her tongue. "The dragon has returned."

Tyrion's Imprisonment

Beneath the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister sat in the cold, damp confines of his cell. The stone walls seemed to close in around him, the flickering torchlight casting long, distorted shadows.

Framed by his sister for Joffrey's murder, Tyrion had little hope for a fair trial. Cersei's hatred for him knew no bounds, and with Tywin pulling the strings, the outcome was all but decided.

Yet, even in the darkness, Tyrion's mind remained sharp.

He had heard the whispers—rumors of dragons, of a Targaryen reborn across the sea. Aemon Targaryen. The name echoed in his mind, a beacon of both hope and danger.

"If the dragon comes," Tyrion muttered to himself, "perhaps the lion's reign will finally end."

But whether that was a blessing or a curse, only time would tell.

Cersei's Paranoia

In the privacy of her chambers, Cersei's thoughts turned dark. She paced the floor, her mind filled with visions of Aemon Targaryen storming the gates of King's Landing, his dragons reducing the city to ash.

She had underestimated Sansa Stark. She wouldn't make that mistake again.

"I should have flayed her," she snarled, her reflection in the mirror twisted by rage. "I should have made her bleed."

But it was too late for regrets. The wolf had escaped, and now the dragon was coming.

Cersei knew one thing for certain—she would not go down without a fight.