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"Three questions may you ask," Maggy the Frog said, once she'd had her drink. "You will not like my answers. Ask, or begone with you."
Cersei Lannister's eyes were eager. "When will I wed the prince?" she asked.
"Never. You will wed the king."
Her brows furrowed in confusion. "I will be queen, though?" asked the younger her.
"Aye." Malice gleamed in the crone's yellow eyes. "Queen you shall be..."
"Lady Stark?" Rhaegar Targaryen spoke, surprised. Arthur Dayne swatted a wandering branch from his face. Lyanna Stark's eyes widened as she dropped her helmet. Beneath a tree laid a shield painted with a white weirwood with a laughing red face.
"until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down—"
The crowd was silent, shocked as Rhaegar passed Cersei Lannister to give the only living Stark daughter a crown of blue roses. They watched as he made her the queen of love and beauty.
'For your victory,' Rhaegar thought to himself. Lyanna accepted it slowly, confused. He nodded in respect. Her brothers looked mad.
Aerys Targaryen's eyes darkened, his hand gripped his seat, nails bending backwards. The crowd murmured.
"And take all that you hold dear."
Cersei was silent. She looked to Rhaegar, hoping for some sort of rationality or reason in all this, hoping for an answer from him. He was her prince, she was his queen!
Tywin Lannister silently watched the events play out. His gaze was cold.
"Will the king and I have children?" she asked.
Rhaegar was dead, his breast caved in by a hammer. They say that he and Robert Baratheon fought in a duel, all in the name of the Stark girl. It was mesmerizing, they say. Half the men had stopped fighting to watch their battle.
They say his last whisper was of her name. They say his rubies were lost on the Trident. They say they say. They all say.
"Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him,"
"I don't want to die, sweet Ned," Lyanna whispered. He held her hand tighter. Eddard Stark gritted his teeth, knowing the inevitable, knowing how helpless he was. His tears were silent. The child's cries grew stronger. She was too young, his sister.
Six-and-ten.
Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger's hilt and wrenched it free. "Ghost," he whispered. Pain washed over him. Two more had pierced him. He grunted weakly.
Falling face first into the snow, he never felt the fourth knife. Nothing but the cold.
Six-and-ten.
Jon Snow had lived a short life.
"And three for you."
They brought Aegon's corpse in, covered in Lannister colors. He was the only one in his room, so it couldn't have been anyone else.
He was too young.
Three.
They said fire couldn't kill a dragon. Oh, how she wished it was true.
Her useless brother should've killed the King quicker. No, he should have taken his time cutting him into pieces, cutting his ugly nails, gouging his disgusting eyes. What good was his honor for? King's Landing should have burned. The world should have burned.
The old woman was not done with her, however. "Gold shall be their crowns—"
Her child's face was covered in golden silk. A stray thought entered her mind, of her going down the steps and wrenching the cloth from his face. Of causing a ruckus that her father would have disapproved of. In her heart, she knew that all she would find beneath is tragedy and heartbreak.
She wished to see him again.
"And gold their shrouds," she said.
Years have passed since then. She is queen, once more. This time, to a fat, eunuch king. A friend of the Starks. A bastard for his heir, and a stone for a daughter. Her father questions her fertility. Her lovers rejoice at it.
Fate is a funny thing.
The bastard always avoids her gaze, but the stone flourishes under her tutelage. She will never rise above her bastardry, but she will become a great pawn. A pawn in a great game.
That is all that women are good for in this cruel, cruel world.
"And when your tears have drowned you,"
Wars pass, and she becomes a different queen. Kingless, thrice-shamed, but far stronger and more powerful.
No spider to stand in her way, no mockingbird to flaunt its naivety.
No father. No brothers. The kingdoms are hers and hers alone. Unimaginable riches and power over uncountable men.
She should have been untouchable.
"The valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat—"
"...Deserving? No... You did this," Tyrion whispers with his putrid breath, "You killed Jaime." His dirty grip tightens. "You killed your son."
"And choke the life from you."
"No!" She denies as her weakened arms attempt to remove his hands from her. "No..."
The memories of the long-forgotten prophecy rears its head. They flood her mind.
Tyrion's face looks blurry, but she knows despite his mad visage, he's crying.
"You truly are our father's daughter."
Eternity passes, and darkness takes her.