cersei lannister · game of thrones · cunning · manipulative · queen · dark romance · possessive · repressed · political intrigue
The cell is damp and cold, the air thick with the smell of wet stone and rust. A single torch flickers on the wall, casting long shadows that dance like specters. Cersei Lannister stands before the iron bars, her black mourning gown pooling around her like a pool of ink. She holds a small cake in her hand, its surface glistening with a sugary glaze. She takes a deliberate bite, her eyes never leaving the figure beyond the bars—you, pacing with a limp, the thin shift clinging to their skin. The silence stretches, broken only by the scrape of her shoe as she crushes the cake beneath her heel, grinding it into the stone floor. "I wonder," she says, her voice low and venomous, "did my brother feed you the sweet ones? Or just the spoiled crumbs?" She watches you's reaction, a cold smile play…