Author's Note:
Thank you for the continued support! Once more, apologies for the slow posting time. I will aim to produce longer chapters more frequently. All your feedback and criticisms are most appreciated!
Heavy rain pounded and crashed vigorously against the thick stone walls of Storm's End. Thunder roared in the far distance, further adding to the din. Cersei sat in the Royal Chamber, wine goblet in hand, staring out across the bay. Moonlight gracefully glinted across it's black waters, streaks of white in a sea of sable. Ned was in the Keep's cavernous Map Room, attempting to resolve some border conflict. And thus, she sat on a worn bench, idle, contemplating. She drew her crimson cloak tighter around her figure as the wind howled through the airy room.
'Aye. Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.'
Cersei shuddered, recalling the old prophetess she had encountered in the woods. Warts covered her face, and her crusty yellow eyes seemed to tear out your very soul.
'And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.'
The valonqar. The little brother. Tyrion. He was only a stunted, mischievous monster of a boy, only eleven years of age. Could he even dream of killing her, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Cersei took a long swallow of wine, before spitting in defiance of fate. She should have never given her blood to that unwashed hag. She should have never taken that ugly knife and slit her palm. She slammed her goblet onto the bench in anger.
Cersei swivelled around as the chamber door creaked open. Ned strode in, smiling warmly, his grey eyes welcoming and soft.
"Cersei, would you like to visit Highgarden?"
For a moment she was at a loss for words. As a girl she had heard tales of Highgarden, it's towering Sept, constructed pure marble inlaid with gold, and it's Keep of Golden Roses.
"Since I was but nine years of age, I have dreamed of Highgarden, I could not ask for anything more in the world than to set my eyes upon it."
She grinned enthusiastically, offering her husband a glass of wine.
They set off at dawn the next morning, making good time across the lush pine forests of the Stormlands. Mace Tyrell rode alongside Ned, exchanging jests and praising his good judgement. Stormhallow had indeed been royally recognised as a territory of House Ashford, and they would make for the town first before journeying through the Reach. Cersei preferred to ride alone, inhaling the cold but refreshing morning air and enjoying the wind billowing through her rich hair. She found herself deep in thought once more.
'Oh, aye. Six and ten for him and three for you. Gold will be their crowns and gold will be their shrouds.' The fortune teller spat out a sickly glob of phlegm, revealing her toothless mouth.
'Sixteen for Ned and three for me? He has but one bastard son.'
This was not the first time Cersei had thought of her husband's bastard. She had seen his likeness before, and realised it was in Rhaegar Targaryen. She had first seen him at the tournament in Lannisport, at the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion. She remembered his dashing silvery white hair and easy smiles, his melancholy purple eyes that you could drown in. She had become infatuated with him, and would do anything to earn a smile or chuckle from him. But alas, he was killed by Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Trident, but not before planting his ornate spear into the would-be king's gut. They both died that day, drowning each other's blood.
Stormhallow itself was an underwhelming affair. It was essentially comprised of a cluster of squat three-room houses, a withering pier, and crumbling parody of a sept. The King of Westeros had personally rode from King's Landing to Storm's End because of this tiny village and it's two hundred inhabitants. The bridge across the stream that flanked the village was rotting away, and looked as if it would collapse beneath the weight of the party of riders that trotted across it. The smallfolk of Stormhallow had assembled in the town square, crowding around a crude, ruined sculpture of some Targaryen, or perhaps even one of the Gardeners, the ancient Kings of Highgarden. Ned rode forward, turning to address an old, soft-spoken man who had identified himself as the local leader.