a feast for crows —「got au's」

↳ EURYDICE LANNISTER

The dying sun of Westeros painted her veranda’s edge russet gold and sandy bronze, declaring the colors of her house’s sigil with pride.

Eurydice Lannister, Warrior Queen and The Glided Lioness, shines in a way that if a peasant crawling in the muck and cesspits of the Seams were to look up, they would mistake her for a new sun, radiant in all her splendor, ruthless in all her wrath.

She has everything she wants now – a kingdom, an empire – and she has trampled the old one to dust so that she could rebuild it. She should be happy. She should be satiated. She should standing here elated, not wanting to throw herself over the rails.

She should be complete. But in a woman with so much hollowness, that is but a dream now, some folly of her mind.

The jewels on her dress chime faintly as she makes her way back into her chamber, then out of it. The palace halls are empty. No laughter, no warmth, only shadows and light. So be it. She has used to the darkness, felt its stretch within her own self. The dark was useful, hiding her as she did her dark biddings.

She heads to the throne. Heavyset doors open for her, parting to reveal the sight that still makes her breath catch in her throat when she sees: the iron throne. Jagged and cruel in its design, yet forged for her to take seat. She does. It feels right when the blades press against her back, when their sharpness teases against her skin.

“Bring them in,” her voice cracks like divine fire in the empty room.

A moment passes before two figures step forward from the shadows, cloaked head to toe in black, showing only their impassive faces.

She tilts her head. “The faceless men,” Eurydice says. “Always wondered they branded you lot as such but now … now it makes a little more sense.” Her chuckle is derisive, curt.

Her expression hardens quickly after it.

“One thousand gold dragons if you get him dead, five thousand gold dragons if alive.

Find Eden, and tell him that the Lannisters send their regards.”