The stone walls of the Red Keep were always cold. Even in midsummer, the fireplace in the Hand's Tower study had to burn pine, the flames licking at the logs, casting Cersei Lannister's long shadow across the map of the Seven Kingdoms hanging on the wall—the edges of the map were worn, the Riverlands circled three times with her red crayon, and the North was pinned with a rusty Direwolf sigil, its fangs still stained with dried pigment, like congealed blood.
"Your Grace, Maester Qyburn requests an audience." The voice of Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard came from outside the door, with his usual deference, yet unable to hide a tremor.
Cersei set down the silver goblet in her hand; the wildfire distillate within glowed with an eerie pale green light, and the Lannister lion sigil on the goblet's side was blurred by the liquid.
"Let him in." Her voice was colder than the flames in the fireplace.
The door hinges creaked, and Qyburn shuffled in, his black maester's robes dusted with some unknown powder, his eyes behind his spectacles gleaming with fanatical light.
He carried a copper box, inscribed with runes warning against touching, and a faint 'tick-tock' sound came from within the box as he walked.
"Your Grace, the last batch of scorpion parts has arrived," Qyburn placed the box on the desk, carefully opening it to reveal the gleaming metal components within.
"As you commanded, we have installed three at each of the four city gates of King's Landing; their range covers the entire Blackwater Bay—even a dragon cannot evade these bolts tipped with dragonglass dust."
Cersei's fingertips traced the metal parts, the cold touch reminding her of the toy sword Joffrey used to play with when he was little.
That child always liked to polish his scabbard until it shone, saying he wanted to rule the Seven Kingdoms with a sword, just like his grandfather Tywin.
But now, the grass on Joffrey's grave was knee-high, and Tommen, that cowardly child, had ended his own life with a rope—all because of those damned Starks, those hypocritical Tyrells, and that Targaryen whore stirring up trouble in the East.
"Are the envoys from the Golden Company still waiting outside?" she suddenly asked, her gaze turning to the window.
In the courtyard of the Red Keep, several men in exotic attire stood by the fountain, the leader wearing a gold-inlaid helmet, his armor etched with the sunburst of Myr—that was the symbol of the Golden Company, a band of mercenaries who only cared for money, but also the only force she could rely on now.
"Yes, Your Grace." Qyburn pushed up his spectacles. "They insist on receiving half the military funds first before they will cross the Narrow Sea. They also said... they want to see the documents for the 'Slaver's Bay spice trade rights' you promised."
"A pack of greedy hyenas." Cersei sneered, taking a roll of parchment from a drawer, sealed with the Lannister family's crimson lion sigil.
"Tell them the military funds will be transported from the Casterly Rock treasury tomorrow, and the spice trade rights documents will be given to them after they kill the first Targaryen."
She paused, her fingertips pressing hard into the edge of the parchment. "And, have them bring back the head of that man named Illyrio—they say he always wears a dragon-sigil necklace, he's a collateral branch of the Targaryen, keeping him alive is a danger."
Qyburn bowed in assent, and just as he was about to turn and leave, Cersei called him back.
"Any news from The Citadel?" Her voice was lowered, carrying a hint of imperceptible caution. "I heard there's a maester named Samwell Tarly, who's been investigating dragons and Others."
Qyburn's expression changed slightly, and he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his robe: "Our people intercepted this in Oldtown; it's a letter from Samwell Tarly to Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.
It mentions 'dragonflame can defeat Others,' and some scroll called 'The Stark-Targaryen Alliance Record,' saying the two families once allied against the Iron Islands."
"Alliance?" Cersei stood up abruptly, the wildfire wine in her silver goblet spilling onto the tablecloth, leaving a pale green stain.
"Stark and Targaryen? An alliance of traitors and madmen, and they dare call it an alliance?"
She snatched the paper, the handwriting on it messy, yet clearly showing the words "dragonflame, Others, Northern alliance."
Fury, like wildfire, burned in her chest.
She remembered Catelyn Stark's perpetually disdainful face, and the rumors of Daenerys in Slaver's Bay—that woman riding a dragon, freeing slaves, winning the support of a rabble, just like The Mad King of old, using false benevolence to win hearts.
"Send men to The Citadel." Cersei threw the paper into the fireplace, the flames instantly leaping high, burning the paper to ashes.
"Bring back that Samwell Tarly, and all the maesters who were researching dragons and Others with him; don't let a single one escape.
If the old stubborn fools at The Citadel dare to resist, give them a taste of wildfire."
"Your Grace, there are many valuable documents in The Citadel's library..." Qyburn tried to dissuade her, but was cut off by Cersei's stern gaze.
"Documents?" She walked to the map, her finger tracing the location of the North.
"When the Targaryen dragons fly across the Narrow Sea, when the Others overrun the Wall, those documents will be nothing but a pile of waste paper.
What I want is power, the glory of Lannister Family—and anyone who dares to stand in my way, be they maester or noble, living or dead, I will make them pay a price in blood."
Qyburn said nothing more, bowed, and backed out.
Cersei was left alone in the study, the flames in the fireplace gradually diminishing, shadows flickering on the wall, as if countless hands were clawing.
She walked to the window, pushed it open, and the clamor of King's Landing rushed in—commoners hawking in the streets, children chasing each other in the square, yet no one knew that beneath this city, enough wildfire was buried to turn everything to ash.
Her father, Tywin, once said that power was like wildfire, able to illuminate darkness and burn everything down.
Back then, she didn't understand, always feeling her father was too cautious, too concerned with the family's reputation.
But now she understood; reputation was the most useless thing, only power, only the sword and fire in her hand, could protect herself, protect Lannister Family.
Joffrey was dead, Tommen was dead, Myrcella was dead—she had lost all her children, leaving only power, only this cold Red Keep.
She could not lose anything more, even if it meant fighting the entire world.
"Your Grace, the envoys from the Riverlands request an audience." Ser Meryn Trant's voice came again, with a hint of panic.
"They say the remaining forces of House Tyrell have launched a rebellion in Highgarden, occupied the castle, and killed our garrison commander."
"Tyrell?" A cruel smile played on Cersei's lips.
"Those hypocrites who adorn themselves with roses and money, dare to rebel?"
She walked to the weapon rack and took down an ornate dagger—this was Joffrey's relic, its hilt inlaid with rubies, its blade still bearing traces of the attempt on Bran's life.
"Tell the envoys from the Riverlands that I will send Gregor Clegane with an army to make those rebels understand the consequences of betraying the Lannisters."
She paused, her gaze falling once again on the North on the map: "And, have Clegane make a detour to House Bolton's territory.
Tell Roose Bolton that if he cannot control the Stark remnants in the North, if that bastard Jon Snow dares to stir up trouble again, I will have the Golden Company flatten his Winterfell first, then deal with the Targaryen."
Ser Meryn Trant assented and turned to leave.
Cersei, holding the dagger, walked to the fireplace and stared blankly at the flames.
She remembered when she was little, her father Tywin took her and Jaime to the dungeons of Casterly Rock, where a noble who had once betrayed the Lannisters was imprisoned.
Her father told her to kill that noble with her own hands, but she couldn't, and Jaime did it for her.
But now, she no longer needed Jaime's protection; she could personally kill all her enemies, personally guard the honor of Lannister Family.
"Daenerys... Jon Snow... Samwell Tarly..." Cersei whispered these names, the dagger warming slightly in her palm.
"You think you can defeat me by joining forces? You think dragons and Others can destroy the Lannisters?
Just wait, I will show you the power of wildfire, and it will turn all your hopes to ashes."
She walked to the desk, opened a hidden drawer, and inside lay a black crystal ball—Qyburn had bought it from an Eastern merchant, said to be able to show distant scenes.
She placed her hand on the crystal ball, closed her eyes, and Daenerys's image appeared in her mind: the woman wearing Dothraki leather clothes, riding a black dragon, with a man wearing a dragon-sigil necklace standing beside her, giving a speech in the square of Slaver's Bay, below a cheering crowd of slaves.
"The cheers of a rabble, and they dare call it the will of the people?" Cersei opened her eyes, and the image in the crystal ball vanished.
She took a small metal button from the drawer, engraved with the Lannister sigil—this was the wildfire detonator, connected to all the wildfire caches beneath King's Landing.
As long as she pressed this button, all of King's Landing would become a sea of fire, and all her enemies, all the rabble, would be buried with her in this land.
"Your Grace, the envoy from the Golden Company requests an audience; he says he has something important to discuss with you." Ser Meryn Trant's voice came again, with a hint of urgency.
Cersei put the metal button back in the drawer, tidied her robes, and walked to the door.
"Let him in." Her face had regained its composure, as if the anger and madness from moments before had never existed.
The Golden Company envoy entered, removed his gold-inlaid helmet, revealing a scarred face.
His left eye was artificial, set with a black gemstone, making him look particularly grim.
"Your Grace," the envoy's voice was hoarse, with a Myrish accent, "we have just received word that Daenerys's army has begun building a fleet, preparing to cross the Narrow Sea.
That Illyrio, who is with her, has devised a detailed plan to first seize Dragonstone, then unite with the remnants of Dorne and the Tyrells to besiege King's Landing."
"Dragonstone?" Cersei's finger tapped lightly on the edge of the table.
"That's the old Targaryen Family seat; she certainly knows how to pick a location."
She looked at the envoy, "When can the Golden Company cross the Narrow Sea? I need you to occupy Dragonstone before Daenerys arrives."
"Our fleet will need another month to be ready," the envoy said, "and Daenerys's dragons are a great threat; we need more scorpions, more military funds."
"Military funds are not an issue." Cersei walked up to the envoy, her gaze sharp as a knife.
"I will have Qyburn send you the scorpions as soon as possible.
But I must warn you, if the Golden Company dares to betray its employer as it has in the past, if you fail to stop Daenerys, I will ensure that the sun of Myr never rises again—I know your families are all in Myr, I know your weakness."
The envoy's body trembled slightly, his black artificial eye appearing particularly dim in the lamplight.
"Rest assured, Your Grace, the Golden Company will keep its promise, kill Daenerys and Illyrio, and hold the Seven Kingdoms for you."
Cersei nodded in satisfaction, then dismissed the envoy.
Silence returned to the study; the fire in the fireplace had died out, leaving only a pile of ashes.
She walked to the map, drew a large X over Dragonstone with her red crayon, and then wrote "Fire" next to it.
As night deepened, the lights of King's Landing gradually extinguished, with only the Hand's Tower of the Red Keep still lit.
Cersei stood by the window, looking at the distant Blackwater Bay, where ships occasionally passed, their lights twinkling like stars.
She knew that before long, this sea would be stained red with dragonflame and blood, and this game of power would finally reach its ultimate battle.
She took a small pendant from her robe, containing Joffrey's hair.
The pendant was made of gold, engraved with the Lannister lion sigil.
She gently caressed the pendant, and tears finally welled up—this was her only weakness, her only attachment.
But soon, she wiped away her tears, and her gaze became resolute once more.
"Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella," she whispered, "Mother will avenge you, and send all who harmed us to hell.
Lannister Family will never fall."
She turned back to the desk, opened the drawer, and again picked up the black metal button.
The cold touch on her fingertips brought her an immense sense of security.
She knew that no matter how difficult the future, no matter how powerful her enemies, she would hold tight to this button, hold tight to the destiny of Lannister Family.