Chapter 131: The Lion's Feast and the Serpent's Smile
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The morning sun cast gentle shadows across Casterly Rock as I stood atop the battlements, watching the procession of banners winding up the narrow road.
Beside me, Myrcella Lannister stood silent, her golden hair lifting gently in the sea breeze. She'd dressed for the occasion in crimson silk that accentuated her slender waist and the subtle curves of her young body, a lioness in appearance if not yet in spirit.
"Tell me what you see," I gestured toward the approaching lords and their retinues.
Myrcella's eyes narrowed as she studied the banners. "...House Crakehall's boar. Lord Lefford's golden tooth is purple. The seashells of House Westerling." Her voice was steady, though her hands gripped the stone parapet with white knuckles.
"And what do you hear?" I pressed.
She hesitated. "I don't—"
"Listen carefully." I moved closer, my shoulder nearly touching hers. "That, little lioness, is the sound of power shifting. Of men calculating their survival."
Below us, the courtyard had transformed into a sea of activity. Tyrell soldiers stood at rigid attention, their green-and-gold armor gleaming. Three massive Targaryen banners, crimson dragons on fields of black, hung from the highest towers, leaving no doubt about who now commanded the Rock.
In the shadow of conquest, even the strongest will bend.
The first lords were dismounting now, handing their reins to waiting stableboys. Lord Roland Crakehall, a massive man with shoulders like a bull, surveyed the Tyrell guards with open disdain. Lord Leo Lefford, thin and calculating, dismounted with graceful efficiency, his eyes darting everywhere at once. Lady Clegane, towering above most men yet dressed in surprisingly elegant silks, laughed at something her companion said, apparently at ease despite her house's precarious position.
"Lady Clegane interests me," I commented. "Her brothers are legendary monsters, yet she seems... different."
"Alysanne Clegane," Myrcella supplied, surprising me. "Despite her tall and strong frame, she's known for her scholarship. They say she has one of the finest private libraries in the Westerlands. Mother always found her... disquieting."
"If Cersei disliked her, that's practically a recommendation," I chuckled.
A nervous-looking man in yellow and black fussed over his horse's handling. "That is Ser Harys Swyft," Myrcella identified. "My great-uncle Kevan's father-in-law."
"Ah, the famous chicken," I smirked, remembering the house's ridiculous sigil.
More banners approached. House Marbrand's burning tree, House Brax's purple unicorn, House Broom's simple broom, the Lydden badger, the Ferren ferry. A dozen major houses and twice as many minor ones, all scrambling to secure their positions in the new order.
I nodded to a waiting guard, who raised a horn to his lips.
The signal echoed across the Rock, and moments later, a golden shape appeared against the blue sky. Viserion circled lazily overhead, her scales catching the sunlight like burnished gold. The effect was immediate—conversations halted, horses whinnied nervously, and every face turned skyward.
Fear cuts deeper than swords, but dragonfire burned deeper still.
"I'm pleased with your answers. You know a lot about the Westerlands despite having grown up in King's Landing, and then sent away to Dorne. Perhaps your mother taught you in the last few days? I suppose she's still useful then."
"..."
"Myrcella. I need you to understand something," I said, turning to face her directly. Her green eyes met mine reluctantly. "I need you to understand that they come not to honor a Lannister," I held her gaze, watching the hard truth sink in. "But to placate the dragon. Please, this is a request, don't make bad choices in the future. And I'll treat you like a lady."
Our gazes remained fixed. Her jaw tightened even as her eyes fluttered, but she nodded once, the gesture almost imperceptible. She was learning.
****
The Great Hall of Casterly Rock had been transformed.
Crimson and gold still dominated—no need to strip away all Lannister symbols when Myrcella was here—but now black Targaryen banners hung between the lion standards, and the Iron Throne's royal seal adorned the massive wooden doors. The hall buzzed with nervous energy, lords and ladies in their finest attire, servants gliding between them with trays of Arbor gold.
The room fell silent as I entered, Myrcella just a step behind me. She looked remarkably composed, almost regal in her crimson gown with golden lions embroidered along the sleeves. Her hair had been styled in an elegant Southern fashion, with thin golden chains woven through the braids. She was a vision of Lannister pride and beauty, exactly as I'd instructed.
[Image Here]
"My lords and ladies," I announced, raising my goblet. The crowd turned as one. "I'm glad all of you chose to stand in a new era for the Westerlands. I trust your journeys were pleasant?"
A servant quickly stepped forward, eyes full of shock and nervousness that he was too late to announce my arrival. "A-attention, everyone! You stand before Viserys of House Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, the Dragon King, the—"
"Enough," I waved him off with a laugh. "We'd be here until winter if we recited all my titles."
A ripple of cautious laughter spread through the hall. I did not laugh. I took another sip of wine, savoring the power of the moment. My eyes went over them slowly. The Lords and Ladies exchanged glances.
One by one, as they assessed each other's reaction, they began to kneel.
A sea of bowed heads spread before me.
"I'm glad to see you guys so eager to serve. I've never been one for lengthy ceremonies," I announced, gesturing for Myrcella to step forward. She did so with practiced grace, her emerald eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the kneeling lords. "The Lady Myrcella of House Lannister stands before you as the rightful Lady of Casterly Rock. You will swear your fealty first to her, then to me as your king."
Let fools confuse courtesy with weakness.
Myrcella stood proudly beside me, the perfect picture of a highborn lady despite the circumstances of her ascension. I'd chosen her dress myself—the crimson silk clung to her developing curves in a way that was tasteful yet reminded everyone that she was no longer a child. The golden chains in her hair caught the light whenever she moved, drawing attention to her fair features, so like her mother's yet untouched by malice.
One by one, the lords approached. Roland Crakehall was first, his massive frame making Myrcella appear even more delicate as he knelt before her.
"House Crakehall pledges its strength to Casterly Rock and to Lady Myrcella," he rumbled, his voice filling the hall. Then turning to me, he added with slightly less enthusiasm, "And to King Viserys, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms."
Lord Gawen Westerling followed, thin and nervous, no doubt thinking of his house's precarious position. "House Westerling stands with House Lannister, as we have for centuries," he vowed to Myrcella. His oath to me seemed an afterthought, hurried and quiet.
Leo Lefford virtually oozed obsequiousness. "The Golden Tooth and all House Lefford's resources are at your disposal, my lady," he gushed to Myrcella before turning to me with an ingratiating smile. "And of course, Your Grace, our mines and men are ultimately yours to command."
Ser Harys Swyft trembled visibly as he approached, his eyes darting nervously to the Targaryen banners. "House Swyft... that is, I, Ser Harys... we pledge... that is, I pledge..." He stammered until I raised an eyebrow, which somehow frightened him into coherence. "House Swyft is loyal to Lady Myrcella and King Viserys!"
The parade of oaths continued. House Broom, House Lydden, House Ferren, House Kenning, House Prester. Some swore fervently, some reluctantly, but they all swore.
When Lady Alysanne Clegane approached, the hall seemed to quiet further.
Despite her immense height—she stood taller than most of the men present—she moved with surprising grace. Unlike her brothers, her face was not disfigured, though she shared their strong features and intense gaze. She wore a gown of deep yellow with three black dogs embroidered subtly across the bodice.
"Lady Myrcella," her voice was unexpectedly melodious for someone of her size, and as she looked at Myrcella, there was a motherly gentleness in her gaze. "House Clegane has always served House Lannister. And we will continue to do so." Her eyes flickered to me, assessing. "And we recognize King Viserys as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. May your reign bring wisdom to lands long deprived of it."
Words are wind, but the fear in their eyes is as solid as the Rock itself. They swore to the lion cub, but they trembled before the dragon.
I wonder how she feels right now. Both her brothers were criminals. Sandor Clegane fled the Battle of Blackwater and was who knew where, while the Mountain must have fled with Tywin Lannister. I'd need to talk to her later about this.
Once the last lord had sworn his oath, I raised my goblet again. "Let the feast begin! And let us have music—something appropriate for the occasion." I caught the eye of the lead musician. "Perhaps 'The Rains of Castamere'?"
A silence fell.
The musician exchanged glances, but he swallowed and nodded when I didn't say anything. A chill rippled through the hall as the familiar, menacing notes began.
– …🎶🎶🎶…!
I smiled, savoring the irony. The song that had once celebrated Tywin's ruthlessness now played at a feast where his granddaughter sat as a puppet and his enemies occupied his hall. Around this same time in a different world, the Red Wedding would have happened.
This time? No such thing would occur. The bards sing of glory, but history remembers only power.
****
The feast proceeded splendidly, course after course of Westerland delicacies served on Lannister gold. Margaery sat to my right, the very picture of queenly grace in a gown of emerald silk that hugged her ample curves. She charmed the lords nearest us with practiced ease, her honeyed voice and strategic laughter drawing them in like moths to flame.
Arianne lounged to my left, exotic and dangerous in Dornish silks the color of desert sand. Where Margaery was subtle seduction, Arianne was open sensuality—the plunging neckline of her gown offered tantalizing glimpses of her copper skin, and her silver eyes flashed with mischief as she deliberately scandalized the more conservative Westerland ladies.
Daenerys, meanwhile, moved through the hall like a beautiful nightmare.
Her transformation still shocked those seeing it for the first time—horns glinting in the candlelight, scales shimmering on her cheekbones, her tail swishing behind her as she spoke with various lords. She wore a gown of pure white that only emphasized her otherworldliness, and I noted with amusement how conversations faltered when she approached, only to erupt into frantic whispers after she passed.
As the wine flowed freely and the hour grew late, I noticed a striking woman making her way toward the high table. She moved like a predator, confident and deliberate, drawing eyes with each step. Her gown was the bright purple of fresh lavender, cut low enough to reveal the swell of full breasts and high enough at the hem to offer glimpses of shapely legs. Dark hair cascaded in thick waves to her waist, and her full lips were painted red.
[Image Here]
"Your Grace," Margaery murmured, following my gaze. "That's Lady Lyra Prester. Her husband died rather mysteriously two years ago. She's known for... entertaining influential men."
Arianne snorted delicately. "Entertaining? Is that what they call it in the Reach? In Dorne, we'd use more direct language."
Before either could say more, they were called away—Margaery by her brother Garlan with some urgent business about the Lannister ledgers, Arianne by Lady Clegane who apparently wished to discuss some rare Dornish manuscripts. The timing was lucky for the incoming woman.
Lady Lyra approached with a smile that transformed her already beautiful face into something truly captivating. She dropped into a curtsy so deep that her large breasts threatened to spill from her bodice.
"My King," her voice was rich and melodious, with the barest hint of a purr. "Your radiance outshines even the famed gold of Casterly Rock. A humble lady such as I can only hope to bask in its warmth."
I leaned back, amused by her boldness. She was undeniably beautiful—lush curves where Myrcella was slender, open seduction where Margaery was subtle strategy. Her eyes were an unusual honey-brown, heavily lined with kohl, and they never left mine as she straightened from her curtsy.
"Lady Prester," I acknowledged. "Your reputation precedes you."
"All good things, I hope?" She laughed, the sound like bells. As she moved to refill my wine, her hand brushed mine, lingering just a moment too long. Her perfume, something exotic with hints of eastern spices and night-blooming flowers, enveloped me.
"They say you're a woman who knows her own mind," I replied, watching her closely.
She leaned in, close enough that I could feel her breath on my ear. "And knows what she wants," she whispered. "They say dragons have an insatiable fire, Your Grace. I… find myself quite drawn to the heat."
In seduction and war, timing reveals intention.
I played along, enjoying the spectacle. "And some fires, Lady Lyra, are best enjoyed up close."
Her smile widened, and she reached for an olive from a nearby platter, placing it between her full lips with deliberate slowness. "I've always believed in getting as close as possible to... dangerous things." She maintained eye contact as she ate, the gesture unmistakably suggestive.
Something nagged at the edge of my awareness. Her smile, while dazzling, seemed a fraction too fixed, not quite reaching the depths of her eyes. No, no. It was. It was good. There was nothing wrong with it. Then what was the odd feeling? Was I being paranoid? Did playing the Rain of Castamere make me find everything weird?
Her movements, though fluid and seductive, had an underlying precision, a lack of any wasted seductive motion that felt almost... rehearsed. Maybe I was thinking too much? If she wanted to seduce me, it wasn't weird to play flirty.
Eh, whatever. If she wants the dragon roaring in her so bad, I'll give and see if she's really hiding something.
Lady Lyra shifted, allowing her knee to brush against mine beneath the table. "I've heard such impressive things about Your Grace's conquests," she murmured, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip. "How you seized the Rock from the mighty Lannisters. How you tamed three dragons when no one believed it possible."
Her hand slid along the table, fingers tracing patterns dangerously close to mine. "Some of us in the Westerlands are not as resistant to change as others. Some of us welcome the chance to serve a true king."
The implication hung heavy in the air between us, her eyes holding a promise of pleasures to come.
"Is that so?" I smirked. "And how exactly would you serve your king, Lady Lyra?"
She leaned closer still, the swell of her breasts pressing against my arm. "In any way that pleases him," she breathed. "Should you find your royal bed... lonely tonight, Your Grace, know that some of us in the Westerlands are eager to show our deepest loyalty."
With that, she rose in a fluid motion, offering a final curtsy. As she turned to leave, she glanced back over her shoulder, meeting my eyes with a gaze that was both invitation and challenge.
I watched her retreat, the sway of her hips drawing eyes from across the hall. My smile remained fixed as I considered the encounter.
Was she merely an ambitious widow seeking advancement through my bed? Or something more dangerous? Either way, the night had suddenly become far more interesting than I'd anticipated.
Beyond the game of thrones lies the game of shadows, where danger wears a beautiful face. I wondered what this one hid underneath.
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