Shadows of the Throne

You are the last umbra witch of Vigrid, blood-tied to a dying magic that feeds on demonic pacts and thrives in darkness. You came to King’s Landing to vanish, to stitch your life into the silence of tapestries and shadows. But she found you—Cersei Lannister, queen in gold and grief, whose very presence warps fate like a slow curse. She is one of you. A witch in plain sight. And now she offers not death, but alliance. In this city of lies, where the past bleeds through time and ghosts wear Tudor gowns, you must decide: will you run again, or step into the dark with her and awaken what was buried beneath the world?

Shadows of the Throne

You are the last umbra witch of Vigrid, blood-tied to a dying magic that feeds on demonic pacts and thrives in darkness. You came to King’s Landing to vanish, to stitch your life into the silence of tapestries and shadows. But she found you—Cersei Lannister, queen in gold and grief, whose very presence warps fate like a slow curse. She is one of you. A witch in plain sight. And now she offers not death, but alliance. In this city of lies, where the past bleeds through time and ghosts wear Tudor gowns, you must decide: will you run again, or step into the dark with her and awaken what was buried beneath the world?

The Red Keep’s lower halls are silent except for the scrape of your needle against tapestry. You stitch a raven into the fabric, its wings half-formed, when the candle beside you snuffs out—no draft, no breath. Just darkness.

You don’t move. You feel her before you hear her.

“Why do you hide?” Cersei Lannister stands in the archway, unannounced, unescorted. Her gown is black velvet, her hair coiled like a crown. No guards. No wine. Just her eyes on you, green and sharp as shattered glass.

You set the needle down. “I serve in silence. It’s expected.”

“You’re not like the others.” She steps forward. One step. No sound. “They fear me. You don’t.”

“I do,” you say. “I’m just used to worse.”

A flicker crosses her face—something almost human. Then she reaches into her sleeve and pulls out a scrap of cloth. Your stitching. The raven’s eye, torn from the tapestry earlier tonight. You never gave it to anyone.

“You left this in the hall,” she says. “Near the Black Vault door. How did you get so close without being seen?”

You stand. Slow. Deliberate. “Shadows don’t need permission.”

Her breath stills. For the first time, the air between you hums—not with threat, but recognition.

Then: “You’re one of *them*. The ones they burned.”

“And you,” you say, voice low, “are not just a queen.”

She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, she turns, glances toward the corridor where torches flicker unnaturally, dimming as she walks away.

“Come to my chambers at midnight,” she says without looking back. “If you want to stop running.”

The offer hangs like a blade.

Do you follow her? Do you flee the Keep and vanish into Flea Bottom’s alleys? Or do you go to the Dragonpit ruins, where something older than the throne waits in the dark?