The Warrior Mage of Westeros

Bran Stark was accustomed to the heights of Winterfell, where the towering walls and ancient stone structures seemed to beckon him into their hidden corners. With the lightness of someone who had done it a hundred times before, he climbed the worn stones of the Broken Tower, his fingers gripping each crevice and crack with practiced precision. The wind tugged at his cloak, but he barely noticed, lost in the rhythm of climbing.

He reached a narrow ledge near the top of the tower, pausing for a moment to take in the view. From here, Winterfell looked vast, its sprawling courtyards, the snow-dusted trees in the distance, and the people moving like tiny ants below. The world felt as though it stretched endlessly before him, and in that moment, Bran wondered what lay beyond the wall, beyond the reach of his father's lands.

But then, his attention was drawn to something closer—a faint sound. Muffled voices drifted through the small, weathered window in the wall of the tower. Bran frowned, his sharp eyes narrowing in curiosity. His breath quickened as his mind raced with questions. Who could be up here? The tower was abandoned for a reason—there were no guests or servants to speak of, at least none that Bran knew of.

His curiosity overpowered his caution. Carefully, Bran shifted toward the window, his heart thudding in his chest. The stone was rough beneath his palms, but his grip was sure. He edged closer, peering through the dust-coated glass, straining to catch any words. The voices were low, almost indistinct, but something in the tone made his pulse quicken.

Bran leaned in further, the coolness of the stone pressing against his cheek. He held his breath, listening intently, as the sound of soft murmurs began to take shape. Though he couldn't make out the words, something about the exchange felt... wrong. It wasn't just a casual conversation—there was a tension, a secrecy in the air that made his skin crawl.

Bran's mind raced. His first instinct was to retreat, to leave the tower and forget he'd ever heard anything. But the curiosity that had driven him to explore so many hidden corners of Winterfell was not easily silenced. His thoughts flickered back to his lessons with his father, who had often warned him about the dangers of secrecy and power. Bran wondered, with a sense of unease, if what he was hearing was something that shouldn't be overheard.

—

In the shadowed corners of the Broken Tower, Cersei and Lancel found themselves in a secretive moment, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows on the stone walls. Their actions, hidden from the world, thrummed with a dangerous energy that pulsed between them. Cersei, ever aware of her beauty and influence, had always been able to use her allure to control those around her, and Lancel, young and impressionable, was no exception.

Cersei reclined, her posture deliberate and commanding, eyes half-lidded as she took in the feeling of complete control over her squire. Every movement, every gesture was calculated, an exercise in dominance. Her breath, slow and steady, matched the calm exterior she presented, but underneath, there was a simmering satisfaction. She relished the power she held, knowing how easily she could manipulate those around her.

"You do understand your place, don't you, Lancel?" Cersei's voice was soft, yet sharp, the words carrying a weight that hung between them. She watched him closely, knowing how vulnerable he was in this moment.

Lancel, caught in a mix of reverence and confusion, nodded, though his discomfort was evident. He wasn't sure where this path would lead, but there was no turning back now. His loyalty to Cersei, mixed with his own feelings of fear and respect, created a knot in his chest. "Of course, my queen," he murmured, his voice a little shakier than he would have liked.

Cersei's smile curled at the edges, a smile that carried both warmth and menace. "Good. Because loyalty is everything," she said, her gaze never leaving him, each word laced with meaning. "But remember, Lancel, it is not just your loyalty that matters. It's your understanding of power. And right now, I hold it."

The atmosphere between them crackled with unspoken tension, as Cersei's grip on the situation tightened. Lancel shifted uncomfortably, feeling both drawn to her and repelled by the subtle cruelty in her demeanor. Despite the control she exuded, Cersei could sense his hesitation, and it only seemed to fuel her sense of superiority.

As Cersei leaned forward, her voice lowered to a near-whisper, "Never forget who holds the reins, Lancel. Never forget your place in this game."

—

As the tension between them thickened, the atmosphere suddenly shifted. A faint sound, almost like the rustle of fabric or the shift of stone, broke through the heavy silence. Cersei's eyes snapped open, narrowing as she registered the noise. Her pulse quickened, and she quickly straightened, instinctively shifting into a mode of vigilance. She turned her head toward the source of the disturbance, her eyes darting toward the narrow window.

There, in the dim light, a face appeared—a young boy, eyes wide with shock. Bran Stark. He had been standing on the ledge of the tower, his face ghostly pale, frozen in place, his breath caught in his throat as he stared into the room, no doubt seeing more than he should. Cersei's expression hardened into a mask of fury.

"Lancel!" she hissed, her voice like steel. The boy's presence brought a rush of fear and anger to the forefront, overriding her earlier composure. "Do something!"

Before Lancel could even respond, Cersei's voice rang out, harsh and panicked. "Bran Stark!" she shouted, her words filled with venom. She moved quickly, pushing herself off the stone floor, her feet shifting on the cold surface, but the damage had already been done. Bran, startled by her shout, lost his footing. His arms flailed wildly as he tumbled backward, slipping from the narrow ledge with a sharp gasp.

Cersei's heart stopped for a moment as she watched the boy fall, the world seeming to slow around her. She rushed to the window, but by the time she reached it, Bran had disappeared from view. Her breath caught in her throat, and she clenched her fists in frustration.

"Where is he?" she demanded, her voice rising. Her gaze flickered to Lancel, now standing at her side. "Find him!"

Lancel, still reeling from the shock of the moment, stood frozen for a moment, his mind grappling with the gravity of what had just happened. Bran Stark, the son of Eddard Stark, had been seen—by him—and by Cersei. The consequences could be dire.

"Y-Yes, my queen," Lancel stammered, his fear of Cersei's wrath mixed with his anxiety over the boy's fall. He quickly made his way to the tower's exit, desperate to find Bran, to make sure he hadn't been badly hurt—or worse, that he hadn't seen anything that could expose them.

Cersei, meanwhile, stood by the window, her mind already calculating the damage, the potential fallout. She had to keep control, to manipulate this situation before it spiraled out of hand.

—

Bran's heart raced as he peered through the narrow window of the Broken Tower. His young eyes widened in confusion as he watched the scene unfold inside. He couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing—two figures in close proximity, an unmistakable air of secrecy hanging between them. His innocent curiosity sparked, but something in his gut told him that this wasn't something he should be witnessing.

Before he could pull away, a sharp noise cut through the stillness—his foot slipping on the narrow ledge. Pebbles tumbled down the side of the tower with a loud clatter, breaking the tension inside the room.

Both Cersei and Lancel froze, their eyes snapping toward the source of the sound. Bran could feel their gaze, even from a distance, and the weight of the moment pressed down on him like a heavy stone.

His breath hitched. He knew, in the pit of his stomach, that he had been noticed.

Without a second thought, Bran scrambled to climb down, his heart thudding in his chest as he rushed to escape. But the wet stone was slick beneath his feet, and in an instant, his foot slipped. His arms flailed wildly, and for a split second, the world seemed to tilt around him. The ground rushed up, and fear clenched at his throat.

Just before the impact, he felt something strange—a shift in the air, a brief rush of warmth—and the next thing he knew, Bran found himself lying in his bed, breathing heavily, the fall vanishing as if it had never happened. His room was just as he had left it, but the sudden change left him disoriented. He stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what had just occurred.

He noticed the necklace around his neck—a simple piece of jewelry—was now faintly glowing, a soft light pulsing from it. Bran's fingers touched it, the warmth of the glow grounding him slightly, but his mind was still racing. He didn't know how he had ended up back here, but the strange feeling of safety that surrounded him was almost comforting, even as confusion clouded his thoughts.

"What... happened?" Bran whispered to himself, his voice trembling slightly. He couldn't shake the feeling that whatever he had just experienced was far more than he could understand.

—

Harry's heart raced as the familiar surge of magic coursed through the air, sharp and unmistakable. His fingers clenched instinctively around the necklaces he had given to the Stark children—the Emergency Portkeys. They were meant to be used only in the direst of situations, and the activation of the charm signaled one thing: Bran was in danger.

"Dany," Harry said, his voice low and urgent, his face paling with concern. His mind raced through the possibilities. "Something's wrong. The Portkey—it's activated. We need to check on Bran, now."

Dany's expression hardened, the concern in her eyes flashing before she immediately sprang to her feet. Her usual composure slipped away, replaced with a fierce protectiveness. She didn't hesitate, and there was a sharpness in her movements, a clear understanding of how dire the situation had become. "We will," she said, her French accent lilting her words with an air of determination. "We cannot wait. Come, Harry." She moved toward the door, her long strides echoing the urgency in her voice. "I'll not let anything happen to him."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He was already following her, his mind on the young Stark child and the danger that might be waiting for them. They dashed through the corridors, each step quick and purposeful, their thoughts intertwined with worry for Bran. The cool stone walls blurred around them, and the torches flickered, casting long, wavering shadows as they raced down the halls.

Dany's usual grace was replaced by a raw, almost frantic energy. Her eyes were locked ahead, scanning the hallway, and even her breath came in quick, shallow gasps as she pressed forward, her silken gown swishing behind her. She glanced at Harry, her expression hard but with a hint of vulnerability that betrayed how much Bran's safety meant to her. "I swear," she muttered, her voice taut with the edge of a vow. "Whoever harms him will regret it. I'll make them pay."

Harry nodded sharply, feeling the same protectiveness rising in his chest. He could tell Dany meant every word she said—no one would touch Bran while they still breathed.

As they turned the corner, the air around them seemed to thrum with tension, the urgency pushing them faster. The familiar feeling of dread settled over Harry, knowing that whatever had triggered the Portkey was no accident. Bran was in danger, and it was up to them to get there before it was too late.

Dany's hand reached out to grip his arm. "Let's move quickly," she urged, her voice now a sharp command as they arrived at their destination. She was ready to face whatever lay ahead, even if it meant confronting the darkest forces of King's Landing itself.

Harry turned to her, meeting her fierce gaze with a nod. The time for hesitation had passed. They would find Bran, and they would make sure he was safe, no matter what it took.

—

As Harry and Dany bolted down the narrow hallways, their footsteps echoing against the stone, they nearly collided with Robb and Jon, who were rounding a corner just as the two of them reached it.

Robb's sharp gaze immediately locked onto them, his expression hardening with concern. "What's going on?" he demanded, his voice low but intense. His brow furrowed as he studied the panic in their eyes, sensing that something was terribly wrong.

"It's Bran," Harry said, breathless, his words tumbling out in haste. "The Portkey—it activated. Something's happened. We need to reach him now, before it's too late."

Jon's face went pale, his features hardening with the sudden rush of fear that seized him. His eyes flicked to Dany, who was already moving with a purpose, her every step determined and swift. He didn't need more explanation. "We'll find Father," Jon said, his voice steady but urgent, his instincts kicking in. "Let's move. No time to waste."

His words were like a spark to a fire. Without a moment's hesitation, they all surged forward together, the group moving as one, their feet pounding against the cold stone floors. The weight of their fear for Bran pushed them all faster, each of them driven by the knowledge that they couldn't afford to waste another second.

Dany, still sharp and poised despite the urgency, led the way, her pace fast yet graceful. Her lips were set in a tight line, her brow furrowed in concentration. "We must hurry," she said, her French-accented voice carrying a note of quiet command. "Bran is not safe alone. We will get there in time, I promise you." Her gaze flicked toward Harry, and there was a silent understanding between them—this wasn't just about protecting a child. It was about family. About the Starks.

Jon and Robb followed close behind, their own urgency mirrored in the tense set of their shoulders. Robb's eyes were dark with worry, and his jaw clenched as they navigated the maze of halls. "Father will know what to do," he muttered, trying to reassure himself more than anyone else.

Jon didn't reply immediately, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on his younger brother, on how much Bran meant to him, and on the danger they couldn't yet see. The weight of leadership settled heavily on his shoulders, even as his heart raced. "If anything happens to him," Jon murmured, his voice rough, "I won't forgive myself."

"We'll get to him," Robb said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. "We always do."

Dany shot him a glance, her features hardening with resolve. "We will," she echoed, her voice unwavering despite the urgency. The bond between them all was palpable—an unspoken promise that no one would fall alone. They had all lost too much. Bran would not be another casualty.

With hearts pounding and footsteps quickening, they pushed forward. The corridors seemed endless, twisting and winding through the ancient stone of Winterfell, but their resolve was unshakeable. Time was against them, but they would fight every second of it. They had no choice. Bran was family. And family was everything.

—

The heavy oak door to Lord Stark's study burst open with a force that sent the guards outside flinching, and the group rushed inside. The flickering torchlight illuminated the room, where Ned Stark was hunched over a large stack of parchment, his sharp eyes scanning the documents with an intensity that only grew as the chaos of his children's arrival reached him.

"Father!" Robb's voice rang out, urgent and filled with an anxiety that his normally composed demeanor couldn't mask. "Bran's in trouble! The Portkey activated. We need to go to him now!"

Ned's face, usually steady and unshaken, drained of color. His sharp features hardened as the gravity of the situation hit him. His eyes widened for just a moment in shock, but it was the quickness with which he moved that told the true story. There was no time to waste, no moment for hesitation.

His chair scraped back, and in a fluid motion, he rose to his feet, his expression a mixture of fatherly concern and the hard edge of a leader facing an unexpected crisis. "The Portkey," he repeated under his breath, his tone dark and serious. "I'll not waste a second."

Jon's jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving his father. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword instinctively, though he knew it was not a weapon they needed in this moment. What they needed was speed, and perhaps a bit of luck. "We'll get him, Father," Jon said, voice low but resolute. The uncertainty gnawing at him, the fear for his brother—he could feel it deep in his chest, but he buried it. Bran needed them now, not their worries.

Dany, standing just behind them, moved quickly but with a grace that was almost effortless, her mind already calculating the quickest route. Her French-accented voice cut through the tense atmosphere, warm but laced with urgency. "We must hurry, every second counts." She glanced at Harry, and her gaze softened, if only for a moment. "Stay close," she added, the unspoken words of reassurance echoing between them. No one would be left behind. Not Bran. Not any of them.

Robb's eyes were fierce, full of the determination that had become so characteristic of him. "We don't have time to waste," he muttered, glancing at his father. "We need to go now. He's depending on us."

Ned nodded sharply, his usual calm now fully replaced by the urgency of the situation. "Lead the way," he commanded, his voice sharp and unwavering as he strode toward the door. His figure was a commanding presence, but in that moment, the father within him was evident—his concern for his children, for Bran, pulling at the threads of his soul.

Jon moved first, his long strides quick as he led the way out of the study, followed closely by Robb and then Dany, who was right behind them. The hallways of Winterfell felt like a maze in the chaos, but their instincts guided them. They were a unit—family—bound by blood and necessity. The flickering light of torches blurred past them as they pushed forward, faster, with each step, each heartbeat.

As they rushed down the familiar stone corridors, Jon couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. "We will not let him fall," Jon muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice was raw with emotion, the bond of brotherhood, of family, driving him forward.

Robb's expression was set, his features hardening with every step. "We'll make sure of it," he said, determination laced in his voice. "Bran will be fine. He has to be."

Dany shot him a glance, her gaze steady despite the fear clenching at her heart. "We'll bring him back," she promised, and there was a fierce determination in her eyes. She would not allow anything to happen to any of them—not Bran, not Jon, not Robb. She couldn't. Family was everything, and she would not lose another. Not this time.

Together, they rushed through the corridors of Winterfell, their feet echoing against the stone, a collective force bound by love, duty, and urgency. The echoes of their footsteps seemed to follow them down the halls—fast, but with no clear answer yet. Would they reach him in time? Would Bran be safe?

The looming uncertainty gripped them all, but for now, there was no choice but to move forward, faster than ever before.

—

Harry, Dany, Robb, Jon, and Ned rushed through the hallways of Winterfell, their footsteps echoing off the stone as they hurried toward Bran's room. Each of them was tight with worry, their faces drawn in concern as the gravity of the situation weighed on them.

As they reached Bran's door, Ned's hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white with tension. Without a word, he pushed the door open, and the group rushed in.

Bran was sitting on his bed, his eyes wide and still filled with the shock of the moment. He was visibly shaken, his chest rising and falling with every quick breath, but there were no visible signs of injury. He looked up at the group as they entered, his face pale but alive.

"Bran!" Ned exclaimed, his voice filled with a mix of fear and relief. He crossed the room in quick, measured strides, his hands reaching out to steady his son. "Are you alright?"

Bran nodded, his voice hoarse as he tried to collect himself. "I'm okay, Father," he said, his eyes flickering to the door as if still unsure of what had happened. "I was climbing the tower, and then I slipped. Next thing I knew, I was here... safe."

Harry stepped forward, his sharp eyes immediately picking up on the faintly glowing necklace around Bran's neck. His brows furrowed in concentration as he studied it closely. "The Portkey activated as it should," Harry murmured, his tone serious. "It brought him to safety, just as we intended."

Ned turned his head toward Harry, gratitude and relief mixing in his gaze. "Thank you, Harry," he said, his voice full of sincerity. "I can't begin to express how much your help means to me. To all of us."

Harry gave a small nod in response, his expression grave as he glanced at Bran. "This isn't over yet. We need to find out what caused Bran's fall. This... might not have been an accident."

Bran's face paled even more at Harry's words, and he shifted nervously on the bed. His hands gripped the sheets tightly as he avoided looking directly at his father. "I saw... something," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "In the tower... I saw the Queen and the King's squire. They were... I don't know what to call it, but the squire was kneeling between her legs, doing something. I... I think he was doing something to the Queen."

The room went still at Bran's words. The weight of what he had said hung in the air like a dense fog, and for a moment, no one spoke. Jon's jaw clenched, his eyes flicking toward his father, trying to gauge how to react. Robb shifted uneasily, his brows furrowing in confusion and concern.

Ned, however, remained composed. His face was serious, every inch the lord he was, but his eyes, those sharp Stark eyes, seemed to pierce straight through the room, as if he were weighing the truth of his son's words. He inhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch for a moment. "Thank you for telling us, Bran," he said quietly, his voice calm but heavy with authority. "For now, you need to rest and stay safe. This... we'll handle it."

Bran nodded shakily, his body still trembling from the shock of the fall and the weight of what he had witnessed. "I'll be alright, Father. I just... don't want to be alone."

Dany stepped forward, her voice soft but firm, her French accent gently coloring her words as she offered Bran a warm, comforting smile. "You are not alone, Bran," she said, her tone tender but with an unmistakable strength. "We will make sure you are safe, no harm will come to you."

Jon's gaze never left Ned, a frown knitting his brow as he processed the information. "We can't just ignore this," Jon said, his voice low but filled with a sense of duty. "If the Queen and the squire were up to something in that tower... it could be more dangerous than we realize."

Robb nodded in agreement, his sharp features hardening with resolve. "We have to find out what happened. If there's a threat, we can't waste any time."

Ned's gaze hardened, the calmness of a man who had faced countless battles taking over. He turned to Jon and Robb, his voice quiet but commanding. "I agree. But first, Bran needs his rest. Once he's settled, we will investigate this. I'll see to it myself."

Harry stepped back, his mind already racing through potential ways to uncover the truth. "We'll need to be careful," he said, his voice low. "If someone was trying to harm Bran, they might try again. We can't afford to be caught off guard."

Dany glanced at Harry, a slight smile on her lips, though the concern in her eyes was unmistakable. "We won't let anyone harm him," she said firmly. "No one will get past us."

With one last look at Bran, Ned turned toward the door, his voice steady but filled with the weight of leadership. "Rest easy, son. We'll find out what happened. I'll make sure of it."

As the group left Bran's room, the gravity of the situation began to sink in. Each of them knew that the incident at the Broken Tower was just the beginning of something far more dangerous. And no matter the cost, they would find the truth.

—

Cersei stood with her back straight, eyes narrowed as she gazed out the window of the dimly lit chamber, her mind already spinning with calculated thoughts. The weight of their situation settled over her like a heavy cloak. Bran Stark had seen them—seen them—and that was a threat that could not, under any circumstances, be allowed to breathe outside these walls.

Lancel stood nearby, his hands wringing nervously. His pale face was flushed with anxiety, his gaze shifting constantly between Cersei and the door, as if he half-expected someone to burst in at any moment. "What should we do, my queen?" he asked, his voice trembling, betraying his fear.

Cersei's lips curled into a tight, thin smile—one that could freeze a man in his tracks. She turned to him slowly, her eyes burning with icy fury. "We?" she repeated, her voice like silk, but edged with venom. "You," she corrected, stepping toward him, her heels clicking ominously on the cold stone floor. "You will be the one to fix this, Lancel. After all, you're the one who made this mistake."

Lancel flinched as if she'd struck him. "But my queen, I—"

"Don't but me, Lancel," Cersei interrupted, her voice low, deadly. "Do you think I am the one who needs to be concerned right now? No, this is your mess, and now we're both in danger."

Lancel opened his mouth to respond, but his words caught in his throat as Cersei's eyes drilled into him with the intensity of a thousand burning suns. He swallowed hard, fear creeping up his spine. "I'll do whatever you say, my queen. Just tell me what needs to be done."

Cersei's gaze flicked to the window once more, the thought of Bran on the other side of it gnawing at her. She exhaled slowly, as if the weight of the situation was heavy on her chest. "We need to act quickly. No room for hesitation. Bran could have already spoken to someone—if he has, then all of this is pointless. We must control the damage, and if he's said anything, we'll need to make sure it never reaches anyone else's ears."

Lancel's eyes widened with alarm. He took a small step back, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. "Contain him? But... how? He's a Stark, and if anyone—"

Cersei's sharp, icy laugh cut through the air like a blade. "Contain him? Lancel, don't be a fool. Threats are for children. Bran isn't just going to forget what he saw, no matter how sweetly you beg him." She paused, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "And as for the Starks... if they do find out, that could mean the end for both of us."

Lancel's face grew even paler, and he took a step back, as though afraid of the woman standing before him. "You... you're suggesting..." His voice trailed off, the fear evident in his wide eyes.

Cersei's eyes turned cold, her hands balled into fists at her sides as she looked at him with a calculated intensity. "If Bran Stark has spoken to anyone, or if he plans to, we must ensure his silence," she said, each word like a hammer strike. "There is no room for error, Lancel. None. If that means making sure he never speaks again, then we'll do whatever it takes."

Lancel's mouth went dry, his stomach twisting as the full implication of her words sank in. He glanced at Cersei, his lips trembling. "You don't mean—"

"Oh, I mean exactly what I say," Cersei interrupted, her voice now a whisper, low and menacing. "He can't be allowed to live if he's a threat to us. He's just a child, Lancel. A Stark, yes, but still just a boy. Do you understand?"

Lancel nodded frantically, his head dipping low. "Yes, my queen. I understand. I'll... I'll take care of it. Don't worry."

Cersei's lips curled into a slow, cold smile. "Good," she purred, stepping closer to him. "I'm glad we understand each other. Remember, Lancel... weakness is a luxury we cannot afford. And the price of failure is death."

Lancel gulped, his eyes darting nervously toward the door once more. "I... I won't fail you, my queen. I'll make sure it's done."

Cersei stared at him, her eyes gleaming with the confidence of someone who had already decided how the story would end. "You better not. Because if you do, Lancel... if you fail me..." Her voice trailed off with a threat that hung in the air, unspoken, but chillingly clear.

The tension between them was palpable, and as Lancel turned to leave, he could feel her cold gaze on his back. As he stepped out of the room, Cersei let out a slow, deliberate breath, her face once again slipping into its familiar, mask-like composure.

In her mind, the plan was already forming, each move a piece on a grand chessboard. There was no room for failure. There never was.

This game, after all, was about survival. And Cersei Lannister would do whatever it took to come out on top.

—

Cersei and Lancel moved quickly through the dimly lit halls of Winterfell, the heavy silence of the castle pressing in around them. The weight of their situation hung over them like a stormcloud, each step they took a countdown to the moment when Bran Stark's silence would either be secured—or broken.

Cersei's heels clicked against the cold stone floors, her posture rigid and poised, an embodiment of a queen under pressure. Her face was smooth, unreadable, but her mind raced with ruthless calculations. She had always been good at controlling her narrative, at manipulating those around her to serve her own desires. But this… this was different. Bran Stark had witnessed too much. The child was dangerous, whether he realized it or not.

Stopping abruptly, Cersei turned to Lancel, her eyes narrowing. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. "Lancel, you need to ensure that boy doesn't have a chance to speak to anyone about what he witnessed. Do you understand me?"

Lancel, looking as though he'd seen a ghost, paled further under the intensity of her gaze. His breath caught in his throat, but he swallowed, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "Yes, my queen." His voice was steady, though his hands trembled ever so slightly.

Cersei's lips curled into a thin smile, but there was no warmth in it. Her gaze hardened, and her words became sharp as daggers. "You'll make sure he's silent, Lancel. One way or another. If he breathes a word of this, it will be the end of us. The end of you. The end of me."

Lancel's eyes widened, but he nodded. "I won't fail you, my queen," he promised, though his voice was small in the face of her terrifying confidence.

Her smile deepened into something more predatory. "You better not. Because if you fail me, Lancel… I won't just discard you. I'll make sure you wish you were never born." She paused for a beat, letting the gravity of her words sink in before adding, "Remember what's at stake. My children's future. Your future. You know what happens when you cross me."

Lancel swallowed hard, his mind racing. His pulse quickened, and for a moment, he wished he were anywhere but here. But in Cersei's presence, he knew better than to show weakness. He straightened his back and nodded again, more resolutely this time. "I understand, my queen. It will be done."

Cersei studied him for a long moment, her eyes dark with calculation. She could see the doubt in his eyes, but he would obey. He always did. For all his faults, Lancel was loyal, and in that loyalty, she found her leverage. She could break him, remake him, and in doing so, she could make him more useful than he could ever imagine.

"See that it is," Cersei said coolly, her voice low but commanding. "Now go. Don't disappoint me." She turned on her heel without another word, her elegant gown rustling as she glided down the hallway, leaving Lancel to carry out her order.

Lancel watched her go, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a vice. He knew what was expected of him. He knew that if Bran spoke, it wouldn't just be a threat to Cersei—it would be a threat to him as well. His own life hung in the balance now. There would be no forgiveness if he failed.

With a quick, shaky breath, he turned and hurried down the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the stone as he moved to seal Bran's fate. Cersei had made it clear: Bran would never speak again, or else they would all pay the price.

Cersei's mind, however, was already several steps ahead, the plan continuing to unfold in her cold, calculating mind. She had played the game of thrones before, and she would play it again. If Bran Stark posed a threat, she would deal with him swiftly and decisively. There would be no room for weakness. Not for Bran. Not for Lancel. And certainly not for her.

In the end, only the strong survived.

---

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