Someone asked if he has any meta knowledge. The answer is no, dude has no idea what the fuck is going on besides him, currently living in a medieval world with ZERO dragons.
Anyways, leave a comment if you want more!
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The prince's words still echoed in the Great Sept long after the divine light had faded.
Cersei's fury simmered beneath her skin like wildfire trapped in glass; Robert's booming laughter and the council's eager murmurs only fed the flames.
Her son was to go to war because the gods themselves had demanded it…
She said nothing more in the sept; there was no point.
Not when Robert had already claimed the decision as his own triumph, clapping their son on the back hard enough to make the boy stagger.
Not when the small council nodded along like trained dogs, relief and ambition shining in their eyes.
The return procession to the Red Keep passed in a haze of roaring crowds and clanging armor.
Cersei kept her hand tightly wrapped around her son's as if that would be enough to forever keep him by her side.
He bore it without complaint, offering her that same confident smile he always did.
It only made the knot in her chest twist tighter.
By the time they reached the throne room, the king had already declared a feast in honor of the "blessed prince" and the gods' clear command.
She watched with a scowl as the bastard practically begged their son to be the one to cook the feast meant to honor him.
She wanted him to brutally deny the bastard, but her son only laughed and agreed, far too easily for her liking.
Clearly, his teachers were failing him.
Cersei's gaze hardened, her fingers tightening ever so slightly against her arm. She would have to personally teach him what it truly meant to be King.
A king did not bend simply because he was asked, no matter who stood before him, be they a gutter-born wretch or a highborn lord.
But for now, she stayed silent as servants scrambled, musicians were summoned, and the great hall filled with the divine smells of the prince's own masterful creations that had become the talk of the realm.
She sat upon the dais beside Robert, her goblet of Arbor red left all but untouched in her hand. Her gaze never strayed from her son.
Her precious prince was made to mingle with the rabble by Robert and the Small Council, who gave some pathetic excuse of getting to know his future subjects better.
She watched as he went through the gathered lords and ladies as though he had been born to rule them, every expression graceful, every gesture beautiful.
His divine eyes were hidden behind red silk, but everyone knew better than to think the prince was crippled.
They stared at him in awe and fear, speaking to their future king as though the very air around him was sacred. It seemed news of her son's audience with the gods had already spread.
Cersei watched it all with narrowed eyes…
And all the while, she burned.
Not only with rage at Robert and the council.
Something darker coiled low in her body as she watched him. The way the torchlight caught the black waves of his hair highlighted his handsome face. The way every person in the hall seemed to orbit him like moths to a sacred flame.
She should feel only maternal love; pure, selfless, and clean…
Instead, the slick heat pooling between her thighs whispered a far more sinful truth.
Cersei's grip on the stem of her goblet tightened until the delicate crystal threatened to snap. The Arbor red sloshed once, a single crimson drop spilling over the rim and staining her fingers.
She did not notice; her eyes remained fixed on her son.
He laughed at something one of the lesser lords said (a jest too crude for a prince, in her opinion), the sound rich and warm, carrying over the music and the clatter of plates.
The red blindfold hiding his eyes gave him an air of mystery; it made it so none could ever truly tell where his attention rested or what, exactly, he was seeing beneath it.
And it highlighted his already handsome face to perfection, drawing the eye to the sharp line of his jaw, the effortless curve of his lips, and the confidence that seemed carved into every feature.
The noble ladies and female servants, the fucking whores, gazed upon her son with open and hidden desire. Their eyes lingered too long on her son for her liking before they remembered their place, cheeks warming as they turned away.
The men found themselves faltering, uncertain if they were being studied, judged, or simply endured. Some avoided his gaze entirely, as though those hidden eyes might still pierce straight through them, weighing their worth in silence. While others tried to push past their fears with false bravado.
She watched as a young lady from a House she did not care for curtsied too deeply and almost tripped over as her eyes focused entirely on the prince's lips.
He offered the girl his hand with unearned gentle courtesy, helping her rise as though she were made of the finest glass.
The girl's fingers trembled in his, cheeks flushing with the heat of a desperate slut, before she faked a stumble, pressing herself shamelessly into the prince's arms.
Cersei's stomach twisted with something vicious and hot as she slammed the cup in her hands onto the table.
"Mine," the thought rose unbidden, sharp as Valyrian steel. "He is mine."
She was going to rip the little bitc-
Robert's booming voice cut through the haze of her thoughts like thunder before she could do anything.
"Boy! Come here and drink with your father! I want to have a drink with you before we go to war!"
Her son turned to the king, even blindfolded, and he found Robert without difficulty. He let go of the bitch and moved with a confident gait towards them.
When he reached them, he bowed first to her, always to her first, before inclining his head to the king.
"Father. Mother." His voice was low like velvet over steel. "I hope the feast is to your liking?"
Robert slammed his palm on the table, roaring with laughter.
"Don't ask such obvious questions, son! You know damn well any feast made by you would be worthy of the high table of the gods! Now stop fishing for compliments and have a drink with your old man!"
He handed him a cup filled with the beverage that their son had made for tonight's feast. His face was already red from a few cups of what their son called Fire Whiskey.
It had quickly become one of Robert's favorites, and he made sure to let everyone know as he loudly bellowed it out for all the realm to hear.
"To the gods who blessed us!" Robert cheered and was quickly echoed by everyone else. "And to my son who made this all happen!"
Cersei's lips curved into a smile as her son turned toward her and raised his cup, not to the cheering hall, not to Robert's bellowing toast, but to her.
Cups were raised, and words were happily cheered. The toast rang out across the great hall like thunder, a hundred voices rising in a raucous wave.
"To the gods! To the prince!"
The prince lifted the cup to his lips and drank deeply, the Fire Whiskey gleaming like molten amber in the torchlight.
A single rivulet escaped the corner of his mouth, tracing a slow, glistening path down his chin before it dripped onto the strong column of his throat.
Cersei bit her lower lip as she watched him drink.
She couldn't look away.
Gods, the sight of it… that careless spill of liquid against his perfect skin, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the subtle bob of his Adam's apple beneath the faint sheen of whiskey.
Her mind twisted the image into something far darker, far more forbidden. She imagined him going down right here, in front of Robert and the entire hall, and dragging his tongue along her thigh, following the trail of her leaking pussy higher… and higher… until he reached her…
Her core clenched violently at the thought, a fresh pulse of slick heat flooding her lower body.
She shifted on the throne, pressing her legs together beneath her skirts in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing ache. It only made it worse. The silk of her small clothes was already ruined, clinging wetly to her swollen folds, and every small movement sent sparks of shameful pleasure racing up her spine.
He was hers.
Her blood, her creation, her future king, beautiful and powerful and glowing with the gods' favor.
No simpering little slut in the hall had any right to look at him the way they did. No one had the right to taste him, to touch him, to feel the weight of that magnificent body pressing them down into silk sheets or cold stone.
Only her.
The dirty fantasy coiled tighter in her mind: him on his knees before her later tonight, blindfold still in place, his hands spreading her thighs wide while his tongue, hot and hungry, delved between her slick folds, lapping up every drop of her pussy the way he now drank the whiskey.
She would tangle her fingers in his thick black hair and ride his face until she shattered, until he was gasping and drenched in her essence, marked so thoroughly that every whore in the Red Keep would smell her on him for days.
Cersei's breath hitched. She forced herself to exhale slowly, the goblet trembling slightly in her grip.
When he lowered the cup, another stray drop clung stubbornly to his lip. Without thinking, he swept it away with the tip of his tongue.
The casual, sensual motion nearly undid her.
She bit down harder on her own lip, as fresh wetness slicked her thighs. Her nipples tightened painfully against the confines of her gown, aching to be pleasured.
Her son's head tilted slightly toward her, frowning, as though he could feel the weight of her stare through the silk.
"You've hardly touched your wine, Mother. Is something wrong?" He asked her while shaking his head at his father, who was now walking away with whores in each arm.
The concern in his tone was genuine. It always was. That only made the heat between her thighs throb harder, more insistently.
She imagined those strong, elegant hands, hands that had summoned the very elements from nothing, sliding beneath the table, beneath her skirts, pressing against the slick, painful ache.
She leaned forward just enough that the neckline of her gown offered him a deliberate view. The gesture was for her own satisfaction as much as anything else.
"Nothing a mother's heart cannot bear," she said softly, her voice sweet as honey. "Though I would prefer my son remain at my side tonight, rather than playing host to every grasping lord and simpering girl in the realm."
A flicker of something, amusement? understanding? Crossed his lips. He reached out without hesitation and took her hand, bringing it to his mouth.
The kiss he pressed to her knuckles was chaste, reverent… and lingered a heartbeat too long.
"If that is what you wish, Mother," he murmured against her skin, so quietly only she could hear. "Who am I to deny the Queen?"
The words sent a bolt of pure, shameful need straight to her core. For one dizzying moment, she pictured dragging him from the feast, away from Robert's drunken cheers and the council's watchful eyes, pressing him against the cold stone of some shadowed alcove and claiming what no one else could ever have.
Instead, she only squeezed his fingers once, hard enough to show just how reluctant she was to let go of him.
"No, it's fine, my love, I actually have something to do before the marrow arrives," she said, releasing him with visible reluctance before she gave in to her desires.
"Are you sure?" He asked her, his kissable lips forming into an even more kissable frown.
Oh, how difficult he was making this for her.
That small crease between his brows, the slight downturn of those full, tempting lips, it was almost enough to break her resolve.
Cersei wanted nothing more than to reach out, smooth the worry away with her thumb, then pull him down and crush her mouth to his until the frown melted into a needy gasp.
She imagined licking into that perfect mouth, tasting the lingering burn of Fire Whiskey on his tongue while she slid her hand down the front of his breeches to wrap around the thick, hardening length she knew waited for her.
But she didn't, she kept her expression composed, though the slick heat between her thighs throbbed with fresh urgency at the mere thought.
Her precious prince, always so considerate, always so concerned for her comfort. It only made the dark hunger coil tighter in her belly.
Cersei leaned, her voice low and velvet-soft, meant for his ears alone.
"Yes, my sweet boy. I am very sure."
Her fingers brushed his cheek, lingering just long enough to feel his pulse jump beneath her touch.
He smiled at her before nodding his head and returning to the floor where an adoring crowd awaited him.
Cersei watched him go, the sway of his cloak, the straight line of his back, the way every eye in the hall followed him with hungry reverence.
The Queen lifted her goblet at last and drained it in one long swallow, the wine pleasurably burning down her throat like liquid fire.
She needed "Jaime's" help for the gift she was to give her son tomorrow.
…And some other more pleasurable 'help' as well.
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He was awake long before the first hint of dawn touched the sky.
The Red Keep still slept around him, the corridors quiet except for the rare soft footsteps of servants beginning their earliest duties.
In the private forge chamber his mother had quietly arranged for him, he stood before the finished suit of armor, his tools laid out with care.
The armor had taken him far longer than even the seven enchanted swords combined.
Each plate, each joint, each reinforced seam had demanded monstrous focus and repeated applications of [Cooking Expert] to get the heat, timing, and material transformation exactly right.
No regular blacksmith could ever hope to replicate what he made.
The result was something that would make most weapons useless against him when wearing the armor.
Blades would have as much effect on him as a sword swung against a boulder.
Arrows and bolts would find no purchase except through the narrow, deliberate slits at the joints and visor, slits he had made intentionally difficult to exploit under combat conditions.
Not to mention it was lighter than it had any right to be! Imagine seeing a tank run directly at you! With a freaking sword!
But protection was only half its purpose.
He had spent the final hours carefully inscribing channels and reservoirs into the inner lining using the holy and elemental flakes he had gathered.
His own body could safely hold only five flakes at a time before the pressure became overwhelming.
The armor, however, acted as an external battery. It could store at least twenty with ease, letting him draw on them whenever he needed without burning himself out, but it was a bitch and a half to refill.
However, the armor wasn't perfect. Blunt force trauma could still crush bones inside the armor. Enough concentrated power or a lucky strike through the slits could hurt or even kill him.
It just made him significantly harder to kill, and that was the point.
He ran his fingers along the final seam, making one last microscopic adjustment to the flake reservoir near the chest plate.
Something still felt… missing. A detail he couldn't quite name. He frowned, tilting his head as he studied the armor under the low torchlight.
Knock
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
He turned, surprised. Who else would be awake at this hour?
The door opened, and Cersei stepped inside, wrapped in a dark robe, her golden hair loose and slightly tousled as if she hadn't slept.
"Mother," he greeted warmly, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "You're up early."
The colors he saw on her last night were rather worrying as they went from bright, happy colors to deep abyss black from one moment to another.
But seeing her now with a calm aura around her made him relax.
She returned the smile, but it carried a sadness that made his chest tighten. He raised a confused brow as he looked at her.
Her hands were hidden behind her back, hiding something.
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, her voice hoarse. "Not when I know my precious son is leaving for war tomorrow."
Well, if that wasn't a kick in the dick…
Cersei stepped closer, eyes tracing the half-finished armor on its stand before returning to him.
"I didn't want this," she continued, the sadness deepening as anger rose. "I never wanted you to risk your life out there. If I had my way, you would stay here forever, safe, by my side, where no one could touch you. I curse the gods for demanding this, and I curse your father for being so eager to drag you into it."
He winced internally at the angry red that now surrounded her. She had no idea the "gods' demand" had been his own carefully crafted lie.
The guilt twisted briefly, but he pushed it down. The Platinum ticket was worth it…
Here he is with the sweetest mom in the world in this new medieval life of his, and this is how he treats her?
By lying to her and everyone just for more power?
Fucking shit man, he was a fucking terrible son.
…He'll make it up to her later.
Before he could find the right words to comfort her, Cersei brought her hands forward.
In them lay a beautiful crimson cape, richly dyed and edged with luxurious golden fur at the neck and shoulders. The fabric looked impossibly soft, the stitching fine and deliberate as if made with dedication and care.
"I made this for you," his mother mumbled out, her tired eyes staring sadly down at the cape. "A gift, so you remember me while you're away. My mother did the same for my father when he rode to war. I… wanted you to have something of me with you."
The prince stared at the cape, genuinely impressed and more than a little moved.
The thought that she had stayed up all night making this for him, pouring her worry and love into every stitch, hit harder than he anticipated.
His eyes grew misty, and without a word, he stepped forward and pulled her into a tight hug.
Cersei stiffened for half a second in surprise, then melted against him, wrapping her arms tightly around his muscular frame and holding him close.
"Thank you, Mother," he gratefully thanked her, his words thick with gratitude. "It's perfect. I'll wear it with pride, I promise you."
She shook her head, her emerald eyes glaring at him.
"Promise you'll come back to me," she whispered, her voice trembling like the last leaf clinging to a winter branch.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the quiet forge filled only with the crackle of the low fire.
The prince closed his eyes, committing the feeling to memory.
"…I promise."
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For a long moment, they held each other in the quiet forge, the only sounds the soft crackle of the low fire and the faint, distant murmur of the waking Red Keep.
Cersei's arms tightened around him one final time before she reluctantly pulled back, her fingers lingering on the broad planes of his chest as if memorizing the warmth of him through his thin tunic.
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, composing herself with the practiced grace of a queen.
"I shall help you don your armor," she said, her voice steadier now, though still thick with emotion. "A king should not arm himself alone on the eve of war."
He smiled before nodding, stepping back toward the armor stand. With careful, reverent movements, he began to don the suit he had labored over for so many sleepless nights.
Cersei watched in silence as he fastened the ties, her gaze tracing the defined lines of his shoulders and the taper of his waist.
Gods, her son was perfect.
She stepped forward without being asked. Her hands were elegant and experienced, as if she had done this many times before.
As she worked, her fingers brushed against his sides, lingering perhaps a heartbeat longer than necessary on the hard ridges of his abdomen.
"You crafted this yourself," she murmured, almost to herself, as she secured the pauldrons over his shoulders. "No smith in the Seven Kingdoms could have made something so… perfect."
He smiled faintly beneath the blindfold. He was more than a little proud of the armor he made.
She finished, and he now stood there fully armored, a figure of dark steel, every inch the god-blessed prince the realm whispered about.
The suit made him look even broader, more imposing, like a living siege engine carved from pure metal.
Cersei stepped back to take him in, breath catching sharply in her throat.
The torchlight danced across the polished surfaces, throwing shifting highlights that made him seem almost unreal, larger than life, untouchable, divine.
The subtle runes pulsed with faint inner light whenever he shifted his weight, hinting at the immense power stored within.
And then he reached for the crimson cape she had given him.
With deliberate care, he draped the rich fabric over his shoulders. The golden fur trim framed his armored form beautifully, the deep crimson contrasting against the steel like fresh blood.
He fastened the clasp at his throat, and the cape settled with a soft rustle, flowing down his back like a banner of war and royal favor.
He turned slowly to face her, and Cersei's heart slammed against her ribs.
She stared, utterly transfixed, her emerald eyes wide with a mixture of awe, pride, and that darker, possessive hunger she could no longer fully suppress.
Her lips parted, but no words came at first.
The sight of him, her son, her creation, her future king, clad in the armor he had forged with his own hands and wrapped in the cloak she had poured her sleepless night into… it stole the breath from her lungs.
"By the gods, " she whispered, stepping closer. Her hand rose almost of its own accord, fingers tracing the edge of the breastplate, feeling the cool metal warmed by his body heat beneath. "You… you are breathtaking, my love~"
She looked up at the narrow visor slit, imagining those beautiful, divine eyes watching her through it.
Her palm pressed flat against the steel over his heart, feeling the faint thrum of the stored magic responding to his presence.
The heat low in her belly flared hotter than ever, slick need pooling between her thighs once more at the sheer overwhelming presence of him.
This was a king in waiting, armored and cloaked in her love and her devotion.
She wanted to drag him down right there on the forge floor, to peel away every plate until she could taste the sweat on his skin and mark him as hers before the war could take him. But she didn't, she rose on her toes and pressed a lingering kiss to the cold metal of his helmet, right where his lips should be.
"Come back to me," she breathed against the steel, her voice trembling with overwhelming possession. "Come back to me… and I will show you just how proud your mother can be."
He stood there in silence for a moment, the crimson cape stirring faintly in the draft from the door, every inch the armored King the realm would soon fear and worship.
The promise hung between them, heavier than any armor, sweeter than any chocolate.
Her son will wear her cape into battle for all to see, her son will win the war, and her son will return to her.