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___________
He was seven now… guess how many tickets he got during that five-year gap.
If your answer was higher than zero, then you're fucking wrong.
He got zero fucking tickets.
Five long years of existence in this candle-scented, shit-smeared medieval hellhole, and his so-called "chaos gacha" had delivered exactly nothing.
No tickets of even the bronze tier, no mysterious skill scrolls, no convenient system notifications popping up with free tech blueprints or antibiotic recipes.
Just bullshit, absolute, cosmic-grade bullshit.
He had waited patiently at first, then with growing irritation, expecting the universe to throw him some kind of bone for being reincarnated as a divinely blessed prince, or maybe when he crafted dishes of unparalleled renown at the very least!
He read stories where the main character gets tickets by simply impressing people or meeting important characters!
"Oh, you made a halfway decent sword? Here are ten tickets."
"You met important character A? Here! Have a silver-tier ticket, bucko!"
"Someone thought you looked cool for five seconds? Congratulations, you've got a golden ticket."
Bull. Fucking. Shit.
Meanwhile, him? He had impressed a king and queen, along with multiple lords and ladies, with his cooking, and made them have a damn food orgasm, in fact!
He turned a simple chicken into something nobles would sell their souls for. He had grown men, lords, knights, hardened soldiers, closing their eyes in bliss as they'd just been touched by the gods themselves.
He had people crying over fried chicken.
Crying.
And what did he get? Not even a bronze ticket! Not even a sarcastic little "good job."
Nothing.
Instead, the only thing that had leveled up was his vocabulary of creative curses, which he practiced under his breath whenever someone took too long lighting a torch.
In five years, he hadn't actually done much of anything revolutionary besides cooking.
No one really trusted a boy barely a few name days old with managing a kingdom after all, blessed or not (unless he pushed for it), not that he was in any real rush to do so.
He wanted to enjoy life a little before rolling up his sleeves and digging into the shit that came with ruling medieval people and managing a whole kingdom.
He learned voraciously from the maesters and septas, of course, devouring history, mathematics, astronomy, basic alchemy, and whatever scraps of engineering lore they possessed.
And it was during one of those lessons that he learned a shocking truth.
This world, this gods-forsaken, mud-soaked, backwards excuse of a reality, had dragons.
Not made-up stories, not myths based on dinosaur bones, and certainly not some half-drunk bard's fever dream.
When they showed him the skulls, there was no doubt left inside him; the six eyes telling him all he needed to know.
Real, actual, fire-breathing, sky-dominating Dragons!
For one brief, shining moment, everything else, every pile of shit in the streets, every missing "chaos gacha" ticket, felt worth it.
Because dragons.
And then, because the universe clearly had a personal vendetta against him, life went up and suddenly crashed down.
"They went extinct hundreds of years ago, my love."His mother told him when he asked her where he could get his own dragon.
…
…
…
I'm sorry, what?
Surely he misheard.
Surely his mother had misspoken.
Surely reality itself wasn't this committed to fucking him over.
They. Went. Extinct?
The words echoed in his head like a death sentence.
"T-They went extinct?" he asked just to make sure, voice cracking somewhere between denial and outright betrayal.
How the fuck do you lose dragons?!
These weren't just any wild animals! Certainly not some dumb herd animal that wandered off a cliff because one idiot decided gravity looked fun.
These were dragons!
Flying, fire-spewing, apex-predator, "burn-your-entire-bloodline-because-it's-Tuesday" dragons!
And somehow, somehow, humanity looked at that and went, yeah, let's just kill those off.
Some bullshit about something called the Dance of Dragons. Fucking Targaryen, no wonder Robert hated them.
He dragged a hand down his face, staring blankly at nothing as the full weight of it settled in.
There weren't even eggs he could maybe, maybe, hatch, bond with, ride into battle like some legendary badass.
Just bones, stories passed around about the age when they still existed, and disappointment.
He got reincarnated into a world that had dragons, and he missed them by a few hundred years?!
He laughed sadly while his mother comforted him, pulling him into a tight hug as she buried his face into her bountiful chest.
It helped, if only slightly, even big boobs could only do so much for a man who had just learned that one of his greatest fantasies had existed… and then vanished long before he ever had the chance to touch it.
And don't even get him started on the seasons!
But other than that little hiccup in his life, he absorbed it all at a pace that left his teachers pale and muttering prayers.
He trained with the sword under Uncle Jaime's watchful eye. He heard the dude was one of the best sword fighters in the realm, so who better, right?
Plus, if nothing else, swords were one of the few positive points of ending up in this medieval world.
His inner child couldn't be happier with an actual, real-life sword in his hands. Even if his uncle beat his ass and made him eat shit with every spar they had, despite having overpowered eyes.
Sure, he could slow the world down if he focused, seeing every movement, every shift, every incoming strike as if time itself bent for him. But what was the point of seeing it all if his body lagged behind?
It didn't matter how clearly he perceived the attack when he was still too slow to do jack shit about it, but he was working on it!
Jaime had stopped treating the lessons as a joke years ago, especially when his uncle was now struggling to kick his ass! Now he has to put in some effort, unlike before.
The dude really was no joke; no wonder he was said to be one of the best knights of the Seven Kingdoms.
Now the golden knight watched him with a mix of pride and rising awe, correcting his stance while occasionally glancing at his blue eyes as if they might reveal some secret he wasn't meant to see.
And when he had free time alone, which wasn't really saying much, thanks to his mother's constant, adoring presence, he cooked.
By the gods, he cooked.
[Cooking Expert]truly was the best thing he could've got to start with because gods knows he couldn't cook for shit before this.
He had turned the Red Keep's kitchens into his personal laboratory, much to the initial horror and eventual worship of the staff.
What began as simple improvements, better seasoning blends, different ways to cook meat, and actual sauces has evolved into something approaching modern comfort food, using only what this primitive world provided.
Stews that actually tasted like they fed your very soul, and desserts that made highborn ladies moan aloud in public.
The servants now fought for the privilege of assisting him, and the head cook had taken to calling him "the Prince of Flavors" behind his back, not that he minded; he actually quite liked it.
But mostly, he spent his time with his mother.
His mother was… complicated.
It didn't take him long to realize that she was completely different when he wasn't around. The color around her shifted from some very dark colors whenever she interacted with peasants, highborns, and even her own husband.
But she was charming when she wanted to be! Sharp-tongued, passionate, and radiantly beautiful in that dangerous way of hers, but with him, she softened.
Her laughter became real, the color around her always seemed to shift to a bright red when being near him, and she listened, really listened, when he spoke, even when his ideas sounded far too advanced for a child.
She never once questioned it, neither his strange, impossible knowledge nor the quiet, unshakable confidence that sat on him far too naturally for a child.
If anything, she indulged it.
Where another mother might have pried, corrected, or drawn firm lines, she simply… allowed him to do anything he wanted.
It was, by all accounts, a terrible way to raise a normal boy. But he wasn't normal, and he actually liked the freedom she gave him.
He found her lovely in a way that made the medieval bullshit almost bearable.
His father, on the other hand… Robert Baratheon did no kingly things.
He hunted, he drank, he fucked whatever willing (or well-paid) woman crossed his path, and he left the actual running of the realm to Jon Arryn and whoever else could stomach the small council meetings.
He heard of his exploits, of course, of how he led a rebellion against the mad king and how he now sat on that cool ass throne.
If he were a regular medieval prince, he would be left in awe at being the son of a legend.
But he wasn't; all he saw when looking at his father was a man who was now a ghost of the warrior who had once smashed Rhaegar Targaryan on the Trident.
He cared about his son; there was no doubt about that, even if the man wasn't always there to show it.
There were moments, rare and raw, when Robert would look at him with something like pride mixed with grief, ruffling his hair with one massive hand and muttering,
"You've got your mother's fire, boy… my strength, and none of my faults, thank the gods."
But mostly, he looked like a broken soldier who had never left the battlefield. The war had hollowed him out, and he drowned the emptiness in wine and whores, as if excess could fill the hole where a crown and a living son should have been.
He understood it, even pitied it a little.
Depression wrapped in royal velvet was still depression.
Still, it left him largely unsupervised when he wanted to be, which was exactly what he needed today.
On the morning of his seventh nameday, he slipped away alone to the kitchens while the castle buzzed with preparations for the feast.
Cersei had wanted to keep him close, of course, but he had given her that soft smile, the one that always made her melt, and promised he would return soon with something special.
Because on this name day, he was going to show the nobles what actual delicious food tasted like!
The guards posted at the kitchen doors knew better than to argue with the blessed prince; they simply bowed and let him pass, closing the heavy doors behind him so he could work in peace.
The kitchens were his now, at least for the next few hours. Servants had been banished on his orders, leaving only the scent of fresh herbs, rising dough, and banked fires.
He rolled up the sleeves of his fine tunic, tied a simple apron around his small frame, and set to work with the calm practice of someone who had spent years in the kitchen.
He started with a rack of lamb rubbed with garlic, rosemary, and coarse salt, slow-roasted until the fat rendered crisp and golden.
Then the fried chicken, which was going to be the main focus because it was one of Robert's favorites.
The man simply couldn't get enough of it, practically begging/ordering him to make more of it when he first tasted it.
After that, he prepared a rich sauce, something that would make the lords at the high table forget ever having just plain old beef with no sauce.
He baked fresh loaves studded with nuts and dried fruits, and whipped up a batch of honey-sweetened pastries filled with spiced apple and almond cream that would melt in the mouth.
For the centerpiece, he decided on something bold: a whole roasted boar (sourced earlier that morning) glazed with a sticky-sweet honey-mustard glaze he had perfected over the last year.
Its crackling skin would shatter under the knife, revealing juicy, flavorful meat beneath.
He even managed a version of fried potatoes, thin-sliced, crisped in hot oil with sea salt, because if he was going to introduce these medieval people to joy, he might as well start with something addictive.
And finally, he took out a strange-looking plant that he happened to find one day while looking through the Maester's medicine cabin.
It was a Cocoa! A.K.A the plant that can be used to make chocolate! It was expensive as hell to buy in bulk despite only being used as medicine, but he was more than rich enough to afford it!
As he worked, his luminous blue eyes narrowed in concentration, those gloves shimmering faintly whenever he moved through a shaft of sunlight.
Sweat beaded on his brow, but he didn't mind.
One feast at a time, he would show them what food could truly be when it was no longer shackled by fear, tradition, or the foolish notion that innovation was a waste of resources.
He arranged the final platters with the care of an artist, stepping back to survey his work.
If his cooking was a ten out of ten, then with[Cooking Expert, it just broke the scale entirely.
No one could replicate what he made; even if he handed them a step-by-step recipe, it would still not compare to any dish he made.
The kitchens smelled like heaven, or at least like a very high-end restaurant from his old world.
A small, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips.
"Happy nameday to me," he muttered to himself. "Let's see how long it takes these tasteless lords and ladies to realize they've been eating like peasants for centuries."
He wiped his hands on the apron, already imagining the gasps and moans that would ripple through the great hall when the first bites were taken.
Cersei would be absolutely delighted, though she was already among the rare few he chose to cook for, and had enjoyed his cooking for years now.
Robert… Well, Robert might actually finish the entire feast by himself.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, that useless chaos gacha remained stubbornly silent.
Fine, be that way!
He straightened his small shoulders, pushed open the kitchen door, and gestured for the waiting servants to begin carrying the feast to the hall.
It was time to show the Seven Kingdoms what real flavor tasted like.
…But first, he needed to cover his eyes; the migraine that was suddenly forming was killing him!
____________
"My son is truly blessed," Cersei thought to herself as she savored what her son called chocolate.
How her son turned a strange, bitter plant that was only used for medicine into something as delicious as this was beyond her, but who was she to question her blessed son?
Chocolate… The word itself was strange on her tongue, foreign in a way that spoke of distant lands and belonging to those of the divine, and the taste, gods, the taste, was something else entirely.
It simply melted the moment it entered her mouth.
Not like honey, not like sugared cream, not like any confection she had ever known. It yielded to warmth as though it were alive, dissolving into a richness so deep it seemed to settle into her very bones.
Bitter, and yet not unpleasantly so, there was a sweetness beneath it, unfolding slowly in her mouth.
Cersei closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, allowing herself that indulgence.
When she opened them again, her gaze fell upon her blessed prince sitting beside her. In his hands were more of those divine treats, a gift he had made for her and the king, despite it being his name day.
Radiant and composed, he watched her with quiet anticipation, those beautiful eyes, like starlight captured and set within him, now sorrowfully veiled beneath crimson bandages, as he awaited her judgment.
Pride swelled in her chest, fierce and unyielding.
What child belonging to an insignificant peasant or lord could do this?
None was the answer.
She drew her son into her arms, holding him close against her chest, though even that simple act carried a quiet astonishment.
He was but seven namedays old, and already he was tall enough to reach her chest.
He truly was superior to all others.
To take simple, unremarkable things, cacao beans, he had said, from some distant place none in the court had ever heard of, and turn them into something so utterly transcendent?
It was not skill alone, it was not luck, it was a blessing. The Seven had truly not simply returned her son to her; they favored him.
Her gaze sharpened, drifting briefly to the feast laid out before them.
Dish after dish, each more astonishing than the last and just as delicious, all created by her son.
Crisp golden pieces of chicken that tore apart beneath the teeth, their seasoned crust giving way to tender flesh within.
Thin slices of fried potatoes, impossibly light and salted just so, dipped in a sauce she forgot the name of, vanishing as soon as they touched the tongue.
And many, many more dishes that her son alone prepared for his name day.
All who tasted it were struck dumb with wonder, and none could seem to sate their hunger for more as they dug into the feast her son made like starved pigs.
Their mouths full of food as they praised her son and the food before them, some even had tears in their eyes!
None of the dishes were familiar, none of them belonged to this world, and yet her son made it all with effortless certainty, as though these creations were the most natural things in existence.
Cersei felt something shift inside her then, a calculating understanding of the sheer potential this held.
This was power all in itself, for it was only her son who knew how to create these divine dishes. It was not the crude power of swords or soldiers, nor even the subtle games of court and whisper.
No, this was something quieter, more insidious, despite its simplicity.
Something that could worm its way into the hearts of men and make them kneel without ever realizing they had done so.
Give a lord a taste of this chocolate, and he would remember it.
Deny it to him, and he would crave it.
Control it…
…and you controlled him.
"Do you like the chocolate, mother?" Her perfect son asked, taking her out of her thoughts and back to her beautiful son.
"Like is such a weak word for something as amazing as this, my love." She smiled before frowning at the bandages that were hiding his eyes. "Must you cover those beautiful eyes of yours? Can you even see through them?"
Her son chuckled before slowly unwrapping the bandages; her smile returned as her heart quickened with anticipation.
"These eyes of mine are getting stronger with each day that passes," he said softly, the last folds of crimson cloth slipping free beneath his small, careful hands. "These simply make it so that I do not become overwhelmed, and others as well."
The bandages fell away, and the world seemed to still.
She could never grow tired of seeing it, no matter how many times or how long she stared into those endless depths.
Light did not merely reflect in his eyes; it lived there. Deep, endless blue, brighter than any sapphire in the vaults of Casterly Rock, yet far purer.
It was as though the heavens themselves had been broken apart and poured into them.
Cersei drew in a quiet breath; even she, who had watched him from the moment he first opened those eyes, could not help the way her heart stuttered in her chest.
There was something in his gaze now that did not belong to a child, something older than his years, something that did not belong to a child of seven name days.
She could not stop the quiet sting of disappointment that swept through her as his gaze drifted from hers, turning instead toward those gathered to enjoy the feast he had prepared.
And those who were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to meet his eyes were left undone by it, either struck silent in awe or reduced to a trembling mess, as though they had glimpsed something far beyond themselves.
Especially the girls, as they all seemed to become blushing and giggling whores when her son's eyes merely went past where they sat.
Her son only blinked, innocent and unbothered, as though such reactions were as natural to him as breathing.
Cersei's lips curved, something hot and possessive blooming in her chest.
"Yes," she murmured, brushing a stray lock of black hair from his forehead. "I can see why."
Her gaze swept the hall, sharp as a drawn blade, catching the stolen glances, the awe, the fear.
She pulled him closer still, her voice dropping into something soft and sweet, meant for him alone.
"Then wear them when you must, my love," she whispered into his ear, smirking at the way he tensed. "The world is not worthy of such sights."
Cersei's smirk lingered, sharp and knowing, her fingers still resting lightly against her son as she held him close, until the moment shattered.
"Gods, boy!" The booming voice cut through the hall like a warhorn.
Cersei's expression did not falter outwardly, but something cold flickered behind her eyes as Robert Baratheon strode toward them, loud, reeking of wine, and entirely too pleased with himself.
A whore clung to one arm, half-draped over him as though she had no bones of her own, while in his other hand he held a half-devoured piece of fried chicken, grease glistening along his fingers.
The proud king of the seven kingdoms in all his glory.
"You've done it again!" Robert barked, grinning widely as he reached them. "Come here, lad!"
Before Cersei could so much as tighten her hold, he had already seized the boy by the shoulder and pulled him along, utterly disregarding her presence as though she were no more than another chair in the hall.
Her fingers curled slowly into her palm, burning rage growing inside her.
"I was going to stop you, you know," Robert went on, speaking as though the entire feast were his audience, and perhaps it was.
"Jon's been in my ear that day, spouting some rubbish about—" he pitched his voice into a mocking tone, "'It's not princely, Your Grace, a prince should not be toiling in kitchens, Your Grace' Seven hells, the man can nag!"
The Hand of the king sighed, but smiled good-naturally as he enjoyed the plate of lamb ribs in front of him, as he listened.
Laughter rippled through the hall at the same time as Robert barked out a laugh of his own, taking another savage bite from the chicken leg.
"I was this close, this close, to telling you to get out of the kitchen and stay out, to get him to shut his mouth," he continued, holding his fingers a hair apart before waving them off. "But then I tasted what you cooked!"
He let out a booming roar of amusement.
"Gods, I told Jon to fuck off and let the boy cook! Haven't eaten this well in years!" He slapped his stomach with a grin. "And my belly's never been happier for it!"
The hall erupted once again. Lords laughed, ladies hid smiles behind their cups, and even the servants could not entirely contain themselves.
And at the center of it all, her son simply chuckled.
Then, with that same calm grace he had shown earlier with her, he lifted a small piece of chocolate and held it out.
"Then you should try this, Father."
Robert paused while the hall quieted just a fraction as they watched.
"The hell's that?" he asked, squinting at the small, dark piece in his son's hand.
"Chocolate," the boy said simply. "It's candy."
Robert snorted, but still he reached for a piece. "Looks like something scraped off the bottom of a boot."
A few chuckles followed, but curiosity had already taken root.
He took it, felt it between his fingers. Then, with what appeared to be a shrug, he tossed it into his mouth.
Cersei watched idly, wondering if a man like Robert even liked sweets, while everyone else waited in anticipation.
He would be the second person to have ever eaten this chocolate, after all.
Robert chewed for a few seconds, really getting a taste of it before swallowing.
"Seven hells! Boy…" he said, voice quieter now, almost reverent in a way she had never heard from him. "What in the seven fucks is that?"
Her son smirked as he beckoned a servant and ordered them to give a piece to everyone before answering him.
"That is my newly made candy called chocolate, and if we're lucky, I can make more of it if I figure out how to grow the plant without paying a mountain of gold for it!"
Laughter burst out again, louder this time, and while the king laughed and demanded more, while the hall buzzed with renewed excitement, a presence came to stand beside her.
"Quite the son you've given the realm," came the low murmur of "Jaime", words meant to be heard by her alone.
Cersei did not turn her head, but she felt him there all the same. Felt the heat of him and the connection they shared that was deeper than any mere bond.
"The gods were quite generous," Her twin continued, gaze fixed not on her, but on her son, who now held the attention of an entire kingdom. "A prince who can command awe without lifting a sword, who can make men want to follow him with his presence alone."
There was a note of admiration and something else.
It was only natural; aside from herself, it was "Jaime" her son spent the most time with.
Her twin had witnessed his gifts firsthand, had seen the precision in his movements, the unsettling ease with which he grasped what others struggled years to develop.
There was no one in the Seven Kingdoms more suited to shape such talent, no blade more worthy to guide her son to greatness.
"Give it time," Her twin murmured. "And he'll bring the kingdom to heights it's never seen."
Cersei's lips curved; she already knew that since the day he was born.
"Of course he will," she said under her breath, full of pride. "He is my son after all."
Then the heavy doors at the far end of the hall creaked open.
A man in travel-stained leathers strode in, flanked by two guards who looked as though they had ridden hard and fast.
Dust clung to his cloak, and his face was drawn with exhaustion. He moved with purpose, ignoring the startled murmurs and the way conversation faltered mid-bite.
Straight to the high table he went, bowing low before Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, who sat a few seats down from Robert.
Without a word, the envoy produced a sealed letter from within his cloak and pressed it into Jon's hands.
The parchment was crumpled at the edges, the wax seal unbroken but hastily applied. Jon's brow furrowed as he accepted it.
The envoy offered no explanation, only another shallow bow, before turning on his heel and departing as swiftly as he had arrived, the doors thudding shut behind him.
Cersei's fingers tightened around her goblet. An interruption on her son's nameday feast? Whoever had sent that rider had best have a damn good reason.
Robert, oblivious as ever, was still laughing with a mouthful of chicken, one massive arm slung around their boy's shoulders. "Seven hells, lad, if you keep feeding me like this, I'll grow fat as a—"
"Your Grace," Jon Arryn said sharply, his voice cutting through the king's booming good humor like a blade.
He had already cracked the seal and was scanning the contents, his lined face growing graver with every line.
The hall quieted by degrees. Even the clatter of knives against platters slowed as eyes turned toward the high table.
Robert's grin faded as he wiped grease from his beard with the back of his hand and leaned forward, impatience flashing in his dark eyes.
Her son returned to her side, but he was paying close attention to the conversation between Robert and Jon.
"Well? Spit it out, Jon. What's got you looking like someone pissed in your wine? Some minor lord complaining about taxes again?"
Jon Arryn looked up slowly, his expression was stone-serious, the kind that usually preceded bad news about grain shipments or border skirmishes. But there was something heavier in it this time.
He met the king's gaze without flinching.
"The Greyjoys," he said, voice low but carrying clearly through the now-silent hall. "Balon Greyjoy has declared the Iron Islands independent. He has crowned himself King of the Iron Islands and is calling his banners. The letter reports that longships have already begun raiding the western coasts. It is a open rebellion."
A stunned silence fell over the great hall, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fires.
Cersei felt a flicker of cold fury rise in her chest upon hearing his words.
The Ironborn bastards? Now? On her son's nameday, no less? Those reeking, fish-stinking savages dared to disrupt this moment of celebration? She glanced at her boy, noting how he had gone still, those brilliant blue eyes narrowing slightly in thought rather than fear.
Robert's face darkened like a gathering storm, but despite the rage, a smile grew on his face. The king slammed his fist on the table, making plates rattle and wine slosh.
"Those squid-cursed bastards!" he roared, all traces of drunken mirth gone.
He shoved to his feet, towering over the high table, the half-eaten chicken leg still clenched in one meaty fist like a war club. "I gave that squid his chance at peace! And this is how the ungrateful shit thanks me? By crowning himself king while I'm trying to enjoy my son's nameday feast?!"
Murmurs erupted across the hall: shock, outrage, a few nervous laughs from those still half-drunk on wine and chocolate.
Cersei watched the lords' faces carefully. Some looked eager for war; others, the Reachmen and Westerlanders especially, their expressions grim.
Raids on the west meant their lands would bleed first.
Jon Arryn folded the letter with deliberate care, though his knuckles were white.
Robert's gaze swept the hall, landing briefly on Cersei, dismissive, as always, before settling on their son. For a moment, his expression softened, the rage tempered by something almost paternal.
"Well, boy… looks like your old man's got another war to crush. Can't have these iron cunts thinking they can play king! Not when the gods themselves are on our side! Kingslayer! With me! We have squids to kill!"
He barked a harsh laugh, but there was steel beneath it now. The warrior king of old was stirring, pushing aside the wine-soaked ghost he had become.
"Jaime" hid a scowl before following after the king; her other half hated that title with a passion.
Cersei's mind raced even as she kept her face a mask of composed concern. A war would pull Robert away, perhaps for months. Leaving the court, and more importantly, her son, under her influence with fewer distractions.
Yet war meant danger, uncertainty, and if the Ironborn struck at the Westerlands… her father would be involved. Tywin Lannister did not suffer insults lightly.
She reached over and placed a protective hand on her son's shoulder, pulling him subtly closer to her side.
"My love," she murmured, voice honeyed for him alone, "it seems the realm requires your father's strong hand once more, but do not worry. You will be safe here with me."
Her son tilted his head slightly, those veiled eyes, now uncovered and shining like captured starlight, meeting hers with that unnerving calm.
Robert, meanwhile, was already bellowing orders, calling for his commanders, for ravens to be sent to the lord's bannermen. The feast forgotten, the hall transformed from a celebration of flavor into a war council in the making.
Cersei leaned in closer to her boy, her breath warm against his ear as the chaos of mobilization began to swirl around them.
"Let them rebel, my sweet," she whispered, her fingers tracing a gentle pattern on his back. "Your father will smash them as he did before, and when he returns… You will have another feast waiting for him. One that reminds every lord in this realm exactly who holds the true power in King's Landing."
She glanced once more at the letter still clutched in Jon Arryn's hand, then at Robert's broad, raging back.
The Greyjoys had chosen their moment poorly.
__________
He did not catch a single word of what his mom just said; his focus was on the words that suddenly appeared before his eyes and filled him with dread.
[A Quest has appeared!]
[Crush the Grejoy rebellion!]
[Kill 1000 Iron cunts with your blade!]
[Destroy 10 ships with your blade!]
[Kill the Kraken with your blade!]
[WIN THE WAR WITH YOUR BLADE!]
[Reward: 1x Platinum ticket]
JUST ONE TICKET FOR DOING ALL OF THAT?!
AND THE FUCK YOU MEAN KRAKEN?!