The curtains were gold. Gold like her former tresses, shorn by the damnable Faith. Gold like her late father's coffers, and her brother's armor, and the Lion of Lannister itself.
Gold, like Myrcella's shroud.
Cersei Lannister, for all her radiance and splendor, was an exceedingly private creature. Days in court spent dealing with blithering fools and bald-faced men with honeyed tongues had led her to value the time she spent alone in her chambers, some fine vintage in her hand to wash away the hours and the smell of Robert.
Her refuge was in this space, and in her children, and now both were taken from her. No longer could she look upon the expanse of King's Landing and allow the view to settle her heart, not past those shades of gold. No longer would she whisper words of encouragement to Joff, or feel Myrcella's sweet embrace.
No, her happiness was taken from her, by beastly brother or Dornish swine or whatever fates or gods governed this cruel, cruel world. And cruel it was indeed, that even after so much loss, she was still assured of more; beset with fear that the same fate would befall her youngest, her little boy-king.
No, she growled, if only in her mind. They cannot take Tommen from me. He is safe, here in the castle, and neither Stag or Snake or Imp will have him. He is mine. "Mine."
Her thoughts beget a flight of fancy, a dull mother's need awoken in her breast, to gaze upon her children -child- and see them safe at rest.
She passes the portal from her chambers, leaving gold drapes and thoughts of her daughter's death-shroud behind.
The giant awaits beside her door, unflinching, unmoved from the very spot she left him last. She does not wish to know what the strange maester has done, instead simply valuing the unquestioning loyalty of the silent knight.
They move through the Red Keep, her muffled footfalls echoed by the cacophony of steel treading behind her. She arrives in front of the King's quarters, motioning for her protector to stand at guard. Tommen fears the man, she knows, though he does his very best to hide the fact.
The door opens with nary a creak, and for that she is glad; she does not wish to wake her boy, or at least not at this moment. No, merely looking upon her son, peaceful and whole will do her well.
She quietly enters the King's chambers, thanking each of the Seven that her son's….wife is still in custody and not here….with sweet Tommen. Shaking the horrid thoughts from her mind, she begins to close the distance to the bed she herself lay in many a night, gazing upon her swee-
Blood.
Her heart has stopped, and she moves no further. Tommen's throat is a red ruin, half-lidded eyes staring through her at nothing.
A strangled cry breaks what has previously been silence, and she rushes to her child (her last child oh gods). Hands trail his limp frame, looking for signs, the beating of a heart, the rush of breath, trying to staunch a wound that has already bled it's fill and suddenly she cannot bear to look and is overcome.
My baby.
WHO DID THIS?
My last boy, my little King.
WHO?!
She returns to her futile ministrations, having already accepted the truth (NO). She hates this world, and this kingdom, and this city, and herself, for her mind has already turned to revenge, wondering if she could burn down everything until nothing could be safe and happy like-
Her mind stopped, eyes alighting on a thin stream of moonlight cascading through the open shutters. And what it illuminated-
The assailant.
The murderer.
KILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHIMKILLHI-
"You," she snarls, and her voice has never been laced with so much venom. Not at her enemies, not at the Faith, not at her former husband, not even at Tyrion.
"How could you!?" she shrieked, queenly grace utterly forgotten. "He trusted you! He loved you! How!?"
The killer –her son's killer- did not reply, only gazed at her with gleaming eyes, blood still dripping off his unsheathed blades, off his furs.
Cersei Lannister spoke in an icy voice that was at once calm yet also brimming with lunacy and rage and the promise of sweet, sweet pain. "Tell me, Ser?" she sneered the bastard's title. "Was this your agenda all along? To claw your way into my son's good graces, to lap up the spoils of his reign? Would he have simply become your catspaw, in time?"
Again, the assassin said nothing.
"Answer me, vile beast!" But no answer came, and the murderer sprang onto the open windowsill, eyes flashing in the light of the moon, bristling with tension.
For a moment, all was still.
But she had cried out, and her baleful sentry exploded into the room, door flying from it's hinges. Sword drawn, he advanced to the windowsill.
But the assailant was already gone, liberated into the night and the caterwauling city, and for a moment the hulking knight and childless mother stand. Only for a moment.
Cersei Lannister fell to her knees beside her son's bed. This would be a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions, a catalyst for greater strife in this kingdom she calls home, but she does not care. She can bring herself to think of nothing but her sweet, sweet boy lying dead in his bed.
She does not count the hours, but night has turned to morn and many have come and left, but she and her knight remain, and she turns her thoughts to revenge once more.
Death would be too good for her son's murderer. No, it needed to be slow, horrendous, something that would make a Bolton cringe in disgust.
Well, she thought, a smirk devoid of humor and happiness worming its way onto her face, there's more than one way to skin a cat.