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Heads on spikes and twinkle lights


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Cersei Lannister

The masses are in a terrible state without their precious electronics. Public and private transport alike in London have come to a near stop in the face of a relentlessly heavy, wet blizzard. The city would be pitch black at night if not for the moon’s reflection upon the shimmering coating of snow. Innocent mortals hide away or loot and steal. The supernatural population runs amok.

It is utter chaos, and Cersei takes front row seat as London tears itself apart.

The holidays are a bitter time. Once filled with the sound of her children’s laughter, barrels upon barrels of wine, and plenty of enemies to manipulate - she finds her nest gone in every sense of the word. Her castle is in ruins, her children gone from the world, and her Seven Kingdoms are… who knows? Instead, she is here. In this place called the Realm, she isn’t even Queen.

If she could not rule the Realm, she would certainly rule London. This would be her kingdom, and her people would know just who it is that they answer in the face of these holidays.

“More wine,” she demands, watching on as brave souls pluck nails from their beds and basking in the song of tortured screams.

She’d taken it upon herself to spruce up London in the midst of a worldwide power outage that left it all dark. Whatever the cause, she doesn’t care. While the Realm teetered on the brink of insanity, she ordered her will to be done, and London's citizens would thank her for it.

Lining the streets, freshly severed heads on spikes would smile at pedestrians, their lifeless grins lit up with lasting candles placed carefully upon their tongues. Their heads adorned with fresh wreaths of pine and poinsettia, to touch them would mean certain death. Trees everywhere are wrapped with twinkle lights, ornamental fingers and toes hanging from them with little red bows. Westminster Bridge would don garland of human teeth and Sparrow’s robes.

Her crowning glory, a sparkling dragon’s skull sat atop Big Ben. Nothing in the city left untouched, it would glisten and gleam and the snow would shine red with the blood of any who dared to question her holiday spirit.

It is as the final touch is placed upon the Palace of Westminster, tinsel made of silver, human hair, that the lights would flicker back to life. A grim smile would cross her lips, satisfaction high as she watches the masses come out of hiding and look about in horror and awe. Turning on her heel, the rightful Queen of Westoros would make her way down the street in silence.

Joffrey would be proud.


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