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Bonus: The Son of Ice and Fire, Her Dragon Prince pt.1
🕑 Added 2024-11-16 16:27:12 +0000 UTCThis will be a two parter maybe more if you want.
Something to make up for the lack of Maekar/Cersei in the main story.
Summary: Cersei will have her promised dragon prince, one way or another—even if it’s his son.
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Cersei took another sip of wine, her eyes narrowing slightly as they swept over each person seated at the grand dining table. The opulent chamber of Casterly Rock glittered in gold and red—the colors of Lannister pride emblazoned on every wall, every curtain, every piece of décor. The room was massive, with a high vaulted ceiling adorned with exquisite chandeliers burning countless candles, casting a flickering glow over the grandeur below. Tapestries woven with golden thread depicted scenes of Lannister history: glorious battles, prowling lions, and the triumphs of House Lannister over all enemies. Marble pillars lined the sides, each glistening under the warm light as if to remind all present of the wealth and power of Casterly Rock.
Silence hung in the air like a sword over their heads, each person too careful, too wary to break it except to answer Tywin’s questions. That was how he liked it; there would be no talk except for what he wanted to hear.
Cersei sat beside her inept husband, frowning at the thought of him—husband. She hated the word. It was bitter on her tongue, a constant reminder of how far she had fallen. Once, her father had filled her head with dreams of marrying a prince, of being a queen, wearing a crown as she deserved. Now, here she sat, the wife of a lesser Lannister cousin—an unremarkable man whose presence only highlighted the ambitions that had been ripped away from her.
All because Jaime had refused to leave the Kingsguard.
That traitor.
She clenched her jaw, holding back the bile that rose at the thought. Even with the bitterness clouding her heart, there was one small comfort she could cling to: her children would inherit Casterly Rock. She glanced down the table at her daughter, Myrcella—sweet, beautiful Myrcella—and her sons, sweet Tommen and brave Joffrey. Cersei's lips curved into a smirk as her gaze drifted over Tyrion.
'Not that creature,' she thought with grim satisfaction.
Her father, seated at the head of the table, finally spoke, his deep voice cutting through the heavy silence. He addressed Myrcella, asking about her studies, and Cersei watched as her daughter smiled and answered him politely. Tywin nodded in approval—a rare thing—and Cersei felt a swell of pride within her.
Myrcella was her pride and joy. She was growing into a young woman of grace and beauty—almost as beautiful as herself. Almost, but not quite. That was good; no one could surpass her beauty, not even her own daughter. But Myrcella was close, and that was enough.
Her father had always been obsessed with securing a royal marriage. He had wanted to arrange one for years. It had begun with her, and she still remembered those promises of a queen's crown—dreams that had been shattered when his plans crumbled.
But now there was another opportunity. Tywin, ever the strategist, had grasped onto a new possibility. When King Rhaegar had unexpectedly married off his eldest two children to one another—an announcement that had stunned the entire realm—Tywin had seen an opening. He wanted Myrcella to be betrothed to the king's second son, Maekar.
The thought made Cersei’s blood boil. She had been outraged when her father told her.
Her beautiful, pure daughter, her Myrcella, married to the son of that northern savage?
The wound in her heart was still raw, still bleeding from the day she learned of Rhaegar’s scandalous marriage to Lyanna Stark. Why her? Why that wild, uncouth Stark girl? Why not her?
Cersei had asked herself those questions a million times, and even now, she found no answers that could dull the pain—the shame, the anger of it all. And now her father dared to suggest Myrcella be tied to the son of the she-wolf? It was unthinkable.
She would have preferred the sickly crown prince, Aegon, for her daughter.
Who knew what sort of beast Maekar Targaryen would be? Poor Myrcella. Cersei took another sip of wine, her fingers tightening around the goblet as she watched her daughter laugh softly at something her father said.
Suddenly, one of the servants rushed into the room, his face flushed and his breath ragged from running. Her eyes narrowed at the disruption, and she saw her father stiffen, his expression darkening.
“What is the meaning of this?” Tywin thundered, his voice echoing off the marble walls. The servant flinched, taking a cautious step back as if the fury radiating from Tywin might strike him down. The room fell silent, everyone watching as the servant struggled to catch his breath.
“M-My lord... the prince... the prince is coming,” the servant managed, still panting.
Tywin’s golden brow arched, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The prince?” he repeated, his voice edged with irritation. “He isn’t set to arrive for another two days.”
“He is here, my lord,” the servant stammered. “At Lannisport.”
Tywin paused, his eyes glinting as he considered the news. “Very well.” He turned toward those seated at the table, his expression hardening into that cold mask of command. “Everyone is to assemble at the entrance immediately,” he said sharply, cutting through the silence. “The entire castle must be prepared to receive Prince Maekar. I will not tolerate a lack of decorum or anything less than absolute perfection. Every servant, every guard, every decoration must be in place.”
His gaze swept across the room. Joffrey, seated farther down the table, let out a groan, his lips curling in disdain.
“I don’t know why we need to make such a fuss,” he muttered, his voice carrying across the room.
A deadly silence fell. Tywin turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto his grandson. The glare that followed could have frozen a roaring fire. Joffrey swallowed, his mouth snapping shut as he shrank into his seat. Tywin held his gaze for a moment longer before turning his attention to Cersei, his expression hardening again—an unspoken command in his eyes.
Cersei met her father’s gaze, understanding immediately what he wanted. Prepare Myrcella. It was clear. She nodded, rising gracefully from her seat, and with a slight movement of her hand, beckoned her daughter to follow.
Myrcella stood, her golden hair gleaming in the candlelight, and hurried after her mother as they made their way out of the dining chamber. The corridors of Casterly Rock echoed with hurried footsteps as word spread of the prince's unexpected arrival.
"Mother, this is all so thrilling!" Myrcella exclaimed as they walked, her eyes alight with excitement. "I've heard that the prince travels all over the Seven Kingdoms. Oh, the stories he must have! The places he's been, the adventures..." Her voice trailed off, her smile dreamy, her young heart already captivated by the idea of the mysterious Targaryen prince.
Cersei glanced at her daughter, and for a brief moment, she was transported back to her own maidenhood. She remembered her starry-eyed dreams of Rhaegar—the silver prince she had hoped to marry. She had imagined herself by his side, her beauty complementing his grace, the power they would hold together, the beautiful children they would have, and how they would rule the Seven Kingdoms as one.
But all those dreams had been dashed. First, he had married that weak, sickly Dornish whore, Elia. Then he had humiliated her further by choosing Lyanna Stark over her—a wild, savage girl from the North. It was as if she had been invisible, as if her beauty and love had meant nothing to him. Resentment simmered in her heart, rising again.
She looked at Myrcella—so innocent, so hopeful—and felt something bitter take hold of her, a strange, creeping jealousy. Her daughter, so young, still had those dreams. She could see it in the way Myrcella's eyes shone, in the way she spoke of the prince. Cersei hated it—the reminder of what she had lost, what she would never have.
For a fleeting moment, she felt resentment toward her own daughter, a sick twist of jealousy she couldn't quite shake. But she swallowed it down, pushing it aside.
"Come," she said, her voice cool as she quickened her pace. "We have much to do."
Myrcella nodded eagerly, and Cersei kept her face calm, her expression impassive. Whatever her father wanted from this match, she would play her part. And whatever feelings stirred within her, she would keep them buried, deep beneath the mask of the lioness.
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Her father had the entire household assembled to greet the prince. Every servant, every guard, every noble of the house stood in precise formation. Cersei stood at the front, her golden gown flowing elegantly to the floor, the rich fabric shimmering in the fading afternoon light. Tywin had taken great care in how Myrcella was presented, issuing explicit instructions to ensure she would catch the prince's eye—her dress, her hair, the softness of her demeanor. She was meant to be everything a young nobleman, especially a Targaryen, would desire.
Cersei watched as the prince’s company rode up to the castle gates. Banners emblazoned with the sigil of House Targaryen flapped in the wind, the red dragon vivid against the gray sky. There was no chance the prince would reject Myrcella. Myrcella was her daughter, the only woman in the realm who even came close to matching her beauty. She was certain of that.
The ache in her heart deepened, a dull pain fueled by jealousy for her daughter. The thought gnawed at her, insecurities lingering, and it only intensified when she finally laid eyes on Maekar Targaryen.
The image of a northern savage—rough and untamed—which she had imagined melted away. As he dismounted and removed his helm, Cersei found herself taken aback, unable to look away. His black hair spilled across his shoulders, and his violet eyes seemed to pierce through the world around him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a mix of effortless strength and regal grace. His face was sharp, with high cheekbones and a jawline that seemed sculpted from marble; he was more handsome than she had ever imagined.
There was something about him that surpassed both Rhaegar and Jaime in her eyes. Rhaegar, for all his grace, had been too aloof, too lost in his songs. Jaime, with all his charm, was reckless and untethered. But this prince had an intensity—a fire—that captivated her in an instant, a burning desire that enveloped her.
Cersei found herself enthralled, and the small presence of jealousy she felt increased tenfold, twisting into something even more dangerous.
They all knelt as he approached, their heads bowed respectfully. Her father stepped forward to greet the prince.
"My prince," Tywin said.
"Lord Lannister," the prince greeted, his voice warm and sincere. "It is an honor." He looked around, his eyes taking in the grandeur of Casterly Rock—its towering stone walls and gilded banners. "You truly have the most beautiful castle in all the Seven Kingdoms," he said as they rose.
Tywin smiled, clearly pleased by the compliment. "Thank you, my prince," he replied. "You are early—quite unexpected."
"Ah, I apologize if I have caused you any trouble," Prince Maekar said, his expression one of genuine courtesy.
"No trouble at all," Tywin replied smoothly, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand.
Tywin then turned to the rest of the family and began introducing them, starting with Joffrey, who had remained silent but whose scowl betrayed his irritation. Tywin's glare kept him in line, and Joffrey muttered a grudgingly polite greeting.
"And this is my daughter, Cersei," Tywin said, gesturing toward her.
Cersei stepped forward, inclining her head with a graceful smile. Prince Maekar's gaze lingered on her, and she saw his eyes widen ever so slightly—a flicker of admiration flashing through those violet depths.
"My lady," he said, his voice dropping to something almost reverent, "the stories of your beauty do not do you justice. You are truly the Light of the West… no, you are the light of the entire Seven Kingdoms."
Her heart soared at his words. 'This was no savage', she thought. This was a prince—elegant, courteous, and strikingly handsome.
She allowed herself to bask in his praise.
But Tywin quickly moved to the next introduction, stepping back to make a grand gesture toward Myrcella, who stood beside Cersei, her eyes wide with awe. "And this is my granddaughter, Myrcella," Tywin said, his voice full of pride.
Cersei watched closely as the prince turned to Myrcella, his expression softening slightly. He greeted her warmly, but unlike with Cersei, there was no grand praise for her beauty, no admiration. It was respectful, certainly, but nothing more. A part of Cersei—the twisted, jealous part—felt a dark sense of satisfaction at that. He had seen her first. He had praised her, not her daughter. That fact gave her an almost cruel, vindictive glee.
But that feeling of triumph was fleeting. As she looked at the prince again, she realized that the jealousy she had felt for her daughter had shifted into something more dangerous. She no longer cared whether Myrcella caught his eye or not. All Cersei knew was that she wanted him—wanted him for herself.
As her father led the prince into the castle, all Cersei could think of was how to make him hers. Myrcella was no longer her concern. This was her opportunity, her chance to claim what she had always deserved.
One way or another, she would have her dragon prince.
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Next part later today and maybe that NedxDany fic too.
