FIRE AND ICE - ROBB STARK X TARGARYEN OC

A New Life

After her vengence by killing those two dornish whores Cersei's hand decided that they would use Myrcella's death as a way to put the smallfolk and other Houses against the dragon queen, by telling them and sending ravens of what Rhaenya had done to an innocent girl.
At first Cersei opposed to use her child in the war but quickly changed her mind as she thought of how that bitch of targaryen had murdered her little girl.

And so the bells had tolled for Myrcella Baratheon three days past, and her body now lay entombed beneath the Sept of Baelor, sealed away in cold stone. But her mother's grief had not been sealed with her.

Cersei Lannister moved through the Red Keep like a shadow draped in black, her voice low but sharpened into a blade. She spoke to courtiers, to septons, to the gold cloaks who lingered too near her chambers. She let her words fall as though they were confidences, whispers meant for few ears - yet within hours, the whole city was repeating them.

"It was no sickness that stole her," she told them. "No accident of fate. Myrcella was murdered. Poisoned. And it was the imposter dragon queen, Rhaenya, who gave the order. Who else would strike at a child to unseat a crown?"

She never raised her voice, never called for proclamation. Instead, she let the story take root in silence, growing on the tongues of the frightened and the gullible.

The smallfolk, ever eager for tales of monsters, needed little prompting. By the week's end, taverns along the Street of Flour spoke of a queen with silver hair and violet eyes who had sent assassins to Dorne. The washerwomen in Flea Bottom hissed that the dragon queen had burned a girl's heart on her dragon's fire. Mothers clutched their children closer at night, whispering that no child was safe if the Targaryen sat the throne.

Cersei watched from her balcony, the city alive with rumor and fear, and allowed herself a thin smile.

"Myrcella will not be forgotten," she murmured. "And the dragon bitch will be cursed for her name."
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The torches burned low in the council chamber, their smoke curling toward the painted ceiling. Cersei sat upon the high chair at the table's head, veiled in mourning black, her goblet of wine untouched before her.

"Myrcella is dead," she said, voice flat and cold. "And the dragon queen is to blame. I want her head. Tell me how."

The men shifted uncomfortably.

Qyburn folded his hands. "Poison, Your Grace, has ever been a subtle ally. The dragon queen is mortal, whatever wings she cloaks herself with. A vial slipped into her cup, a tincture painted on her lips-"

"-and she has a dragon the size of a castle," Jaime cut in, arms crossed over his gilded breastplate. "You can't poison a beast that breathes fire, and without the dragon, no assassin will ever reach her. She's too well-guarded."

Euron Greyjoy leaned forward, his grin sharp and wolfish. "Then we don't strike the queen. We strike the dragon. My fleet can bring down anything that flies. Chain it with scorpions, drag it into the sea. A dragon's not so fearsome once it drowns."

Kevan Lannister frowned deeply. "Madness. You'll risk your ships and half the realm's coin. We need armies, not empty boasts. Perhaps it is wiser to sow dissent. If this Rhaenya is as proud as the rest of her blood, her own allies will turn on her soon enough."

Baelish's voice was soft, sly. "Lords are... malleable, Your Grace. Fear is one lever, gold another. The Northmen may cheer her now, but I could see to it that their loyalty wanes. What is marriage, after all, but another chain to be broken?"

Pycelle cleared his throat, wheezing. "If it please Your Grace, the Faith may yet be swayed against her. The smallfolk are already whispering of her hand in the princess's death. With holy fire stoked, she may find the city barred to her, not opened."