King's Landing, inside the Red Keep, was unusually quiet. The once-grand halls, lined with tapestries depicting past kings, now seemed subdued under the shadow of death. In the center of the Baylor Great Sept lay the lifeless body of Jon Arryn, the revered Hand of the King. A life spent serving the realm had ended in silence. Two oddly crafted pebbles, painted to resemble eyes, rested on his eyelids, staring silently at the world that had so cruelly taken him.
On the second floor of the sept, a woman with golden curls and emerald eyes stared intently at the corpse. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that demanded attention, yet her expression was tense, almost fearful—as if Jon Arryn might rise again at any moment.
"Cersei."
The voice was soft yet commanding. A man with golden hair, as strikingly handsome as the woman herself, approached her with deliberate steps. His eyes held the weight of both affection and concern.
"He's dead… he'll never return," Jaime Lannister said quietly, standing beside his twin sister and lover. His tone carried a gentleness rarely seen in a man of his reputation.
"I… I know." Cersei murmured, her voice low, almost hypnotic. Despite her words, her eyes betrayed a hint of worry.
Jaime smiled faintly, reaching out as if to comfort her. "Too much worry will only give you wrinkles," he teased.
Cersei's lips curved into a delicate smile, the warmth of her presence filling the dim room. Once renowned as the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros, she had aged gracefully. Even so, Jaime could sense the lingering tension behind her composed exterior.
"My brother…" she whispered, turning her gaze back to Jon Arryn. "I have always believed that only you were worthy of the Hand of the King." Her words, though directed at the dead man, seemed to carry an echo of longing for someone else entirely.
Jaime's hand brushed her cheek gently. "The hands of the king… only a fool would crave such a burden. Who among them is brave enough?"
Cersei's eyes followed his, understanding immediately the person he meant. Her lips parted slightly as she murmured the name, "Arthas…"
Jaime shook his head, half in amusement, half in exasperation. "Bravery… it's rare. Even our brother had more courage at ten than most men show in a lifetime." His mind drifted to memories of their youth at Casterly Rock: the towering walls, the harshness of their father, and the boy who dared to confront him without fear.
Cersei's attention, however, had shifted entirely. Thoughts of Arthas had captivated her mind, stirring a mix of fascination and desire. She pressed her legs together subconsciously, betraying her composure.
"Cersei, I am your brother!" Jaime exclaimed, a note of jealousy threading his words. His hand slid roughly around her waist, grounding both his presence and his claim.
Cersei, unfazed, responded with playful defiance. "Arthas has grown. Perhaps it is time to invite him into our… family circle, to feel the warmth of the Lannister siblings." Her voice carried both challenge and flirtation.
Jaime's hands moved instinctively, but Cersei, always in control, pushed him back with a laugh. "Now is not the time," she warned, lifting her skirt gracefully and leaving him with only the memory of her back.
"Arthas…" Jaime whispered under his breath, his fingers clenching in quiet jealousy. "I will not let him take you from me."
Below the walls of the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister, known to many as the Imp, rode at the head of the procession. His gaze lingered on the massive lion's head above the city gate, a symbol of his house, and he murmured a name, soft but filled with longing.
Arthas, riding beside him, noticed the detour they were taking through the city. "If you are eager to see Jaime, why go this way? Wouldn't the Dragon Gate be faster?"
Tyrion waved his short arms enthusiastically, pointing toward the massive lion-headed gate. "We are Lannisters, Arthas! The heir to the Lannister name must follow proper etiquette!"
Arthas curled his lip, his disdain barely concealed. In all his lives—as prince of Lordaeron, Death Knight, and Lich King—he had acted on his own terms. Yet even he obeyed, at least outwardly, as they spurred their horses toward the city.
Magic lingered faintly in the air, a subtle reminder of the world Arthas had entered. At ten years old, he had used this weak magic to awaken the Unholy Aura, tempering his frail body with strength few could match. Every day at Casterly Rock, he had trained relentlessly, perfecting his swordsmanship and honing his physical form to a peak beyond ordinary men. His duel with The Mountain had required none of his refined techniques, only raw strength.
As they passed through the narrow streets of King's Landing, a short man with a tiny mustache spread his arms dramatically. "Oho! Lord Tyrion, Lord Arthas! Welcome back to King's Landing!"
Arthas's eyes narrowed. The man—Petyr Baelish—was insufferable, a whoremonger whose charm disguised his cunning. "Lord Baelish," Tyrion replied politely, hiding his own distaste.
"Oh, my dear Lords! The ladies of my house have missed you. You must stay awhile—I'll give a generous discount this time!" Baelish said, smiling with a practiced grace.
Arthas's patience snapped. "Mind your tongue, Littlefinger," he said sharply. As a Death Knight and Lich King, he had never set foot in a brothel, and he had no intention of starting now. Baelish's flattery, thinly veiled as humor, only provoked him.
Recognizing Arthas's anger, Baelish raised his hand in apology, his smile unwavering. He was a man who concealed ambition behind manners, always biding his time, waiting for a chance to strike.
"Enough," Arthas said, his tone icy. "Clear the streets. We ride straight to the Red Keep. This city reeks too much."
King's Landing, particularly the infamous Flea Bottom, assaulted the senses. Open sewers and slums sprawled endlessly, with little concern for hygiene or propriety. Waste littered the streets, and anyone on foot risked stepping directly into filth. For Arthas, who had lived amidst Lordaeron's advanced infrastructure and magically enhanced sanitation, the stench was unbearable.
"Yes, Lord Arthas," Baelish said, bowing once more.
With a sudden smirk, Arthas spurred his horse forward. Hooves thundered down the streets, splashing Baelish with filth, leaving the once-proud Master of Coin sputtering and humiliated.
"Hahaha!" Tyrion laughed, suppressing his amusement. "Forgive him, Lord Baelish. My brother is… rather spoiled."
Baelish coughed, wiping away the muck, his eyes burning with a quiet fury. "One day, the Lannisters will learn their place," he muttered under his breath, watching the retreating figures of Tyrion and Arthas.
The Red Keep loomed ahead, an imposing fortress overlooking the city. Here, Arthas felt a rare sense of control—a place where his power, though not yet absolute, could flourish unchallenged. The stench and chaos of the city were behind him, replaced by the cold, structured order of the royal seat.
Tyrion, always perceptive, glanced at Arthas. "Patience, brother. The city may be foul, but its intrigues are far more dangerous than any stench."
Arthas nodded silently, already sensing the weight of schemes, jealousy, and desire that awaited him within the Red Keep's walls. Here, amidst politics and passion, the true test of power awaited—the kind that could break kings, tempt queens, and command kingdoms.
Arthas's journey through King's Landing had revealed much: the corruption of men, the weakness of noble houses, and the intoxicating allure of beauty and desire. Yet he remained unmoved, guided by a single principle: power, in all its forms, was to be earned and commanded, never given.
Tonight, the Red Keep would witness the return of a force few could comprehend—the heir of Lannister, the Death Knight, the one who would challenge the very fabric of Westeros itself. And as the city reeked beneath him, Arthas rode with purpose, his golden hair gleaming in the fading sun, a symbol of both destruction and destiny.