As Ned Stark’s head rolls down the aisle to the front of her crystal-clad feet, Cersei allows herself to smile. A content little smile befits that of a queen, she supposes. The smile of an angel of death that now rules the continent alongside the fiercest warrior of her husband. Her people have gone from merry to quiet, so quiet she can barely hear the beating of her own heart, the silk movement of her gown beneath her sapphires-lavished winter coat draped about her shoulders.
Cersei circles the head, careful as to not let the blood staining her dress, and stomps the sharp heel of her shoe into Ned Stark’s right eye. Gasps of shock mixed with disgust fill her ears like her own wedding bell.
She smoothes her dress as it falls around her ankle, trying not to flinch or fall in front of the entire pack as she raises her chin with pride. Beside her Joffrey stares at her like she is the goddess in flesh, amazement and awe in his beautiful emerald eyes, mouth agape and a proud smile on his face. This is good, Cersei thinks. This is the right thing to do for the sake of her pack.
“This is the sort of punishment that all those who betray our trust shall receive,” the queen announces. “If anyone tries to destroy our pack to pieces like this man had, by marrying his son who was promised to mine off with a witch,” Cersei pauses, tastes victory thick on her tongue, breathes in the fear like it is the freshest air she has ever breathed in for years with a satisfied smile that make them twitch in annoyance. “Then it is your head that will roll down this aisle.”
Her statement is greeted with a deafening silence. It is in that moment, when the queen feels so strong, so powerful, so... queen. Victorious even, that her doom steps forward.
“Precious Queen,” calls the wrinkled old woman out as she takes a few steps forward, her hand reaching out as if to touch her. “Our precious queen of Norway,” she continues until she is right in front of her, fingers touching her hair. Cersei fights the urge to lean back, to cringe away from this rotten-corpse-smelled old woman, but she doesn’t. She is part of the pack, Robert’s queen. She will not cringe away from a weakly old lady.
The old woman licks her lips, and suddenly there is blood streaming down her eyes, a scream tears out of his throat.
“Queen you shall be,” she begins, leaning down to touch the nape of Cersei’s neck where she sinks her nails in so deep until blood pours out of her flesh, a big gash on her neck. “Forever shall your beauty last, haunted by fear and terror, but today shall your reign end.”
Panic starts creeping down her throat, choking her until she is left gasping and bloody on her knees. She wants to scream for help, for them to move because this is her queen that sits dying on the ground, not just a simple human whore that her husband loves so much. “What have you done,” Cersei croaks as blood strangles its way out of her lips. The old woman makes a terrifying grin that makes her skin crawl in fear.
“Ending your mortal life, my queen.”
And the bells begin to ring.