Part 3 - The Convergence
Chapter 37
The Maiden
She could hear the sound of children playing – sweet innocent voices ringing in the clear air. Cobbles of pale pink marble paved the gardens and courtyard, and terraces overlooked the pools and fountains of the Water Gardens. Nymeria was shaded by blood orange trees, standing on the fluted pillar gallery leading to the triple archway.
The Water Gardens were pleasant in autumn. The days were hot and the nights cool, the salt breeze blew in from the sea, and the lily-coated, scented fountains and pools looked so lovely. Nymeria had such fond memories of the Water Gardens – she remembered playing in the pools herself along with Sarella, Tyene and Arianne – all the while her father and nuncle would watch and laugh. Arianne used to be so vibrant and passionate, eager to play pretend elaborate scenarios and determined never to lose, while Tyene stuck closely besides Nym, both of them terrors at the games, while Sarella would just splash everybody all playfully. They had all been closer than sisters, and the memories of laughter and pleasant summer days still echoed in her head.
She could understand her nuncle's love for the Water Gardens. It was such a sweet and innocent place. A refuge from the world.
But it is a place for children, Nym thought, sighing. And now I'm all grown up.
She plucked a dried grape from the ceramic bowl, rocking her hips slightly as she walked across the red terrace, shaded by the palms. Nym had picked a sleek samite dress that hugged her form, showing the yellows and reds of her family's colours, and sleek enough that her tanned skin shivered slightly in the cool air. She would have worn a shawl, but she favoured the sleek fabric; it made it obvious that there were no weapons hidden on her body, and sometimes obvious was useful.
Two men-at-arms with halberds, stood stiffly as she crossed the bridge towards the pavilion. Nym gave one of the men a soft smile, causing the young guard to blush. He had sandy hair and a clean-shaven chin, with small dimples on his cheeks. He's a new one, she took care to note. Usually Doran preferred older and seasoned guards around him, but the new guard was young and foolish enough to be distracted by a pretty face. Nym made note of it, just in case it could be useful. Her father had taught her to use every advantage.
She saw Prince Doran Martell on his usual seat in the evening shade beneath the lemon trees, his face passive. He didn't turn to face her. Instead, he just sat on his cushioned seat, soothing his bloated feet in cool water, looking out over the tranquil trees and pools. He looks old, Nym thought sadly. The news – or rather the lack of news – concerning Quentyn had drained the last of the strength from him.
The Prince of Dorne has a soft heart. She would have felt sorry for him, except Dorne had no need for a soft-hearted prince.
"Well met, nuncle," Nymeria called, flashing him a sweet smile. "It has been so long since I've been in these gardens."
He paused before replying. "I remember a time when you and your sisters would splash in the pools," he said, sounding wary, before turning his gaze away. "How was your journey?"
"Eventful. I docked in Sunspear three days ago." That was a lie, Nym had actually arrived, discreetly, a fortnight past. "Did you hear the news, nuncle? The queen is going mad."
Prince Doran took a long, deep breath, shifting his feet in the bowl of perfumed water. The rim of his golden silk robes were drenched. "So I hear. The whole realm says the same, and I have lost contact with my friends in the capital since the Red Keep has come under siege. The ravens say her brother tormented her to the edge of insanity."
"Imps are wicked creatures, are they not?" Nym laughed, with more humour than he had. "I find that madness is a slow venom. Slow, but very effective."
She sat down cross-legged on the chair opposite him. Doran cast her a wary look, heavy wrinkles over his eyes. He looked old, older than ever, but his attention was solely on her eyes. He knows me too well.
She picked up another grape. "I travelled all the way to King's Landing, only to be barred at the gates," Nym chuckled. "The queen revoked Dorne's seat at the small council. I think my presence may have insulted her. Something about no snakes allowed in her court, can you imagine that? Oh, that was surely the first sign the woman was crazed." She squeezed the moist grape gently, feeling it ready to burst, but didn't eat it. "Still, mayhaps, I was fortunate. If I had been allowed in, I would be a hostage right now, just like the poor Tyrell queen and her little king."
And if I had been taken hostage, Cersei would likely be dead, she thought viciously. Nym had brought with her a dress lined with poisons and daggers, and the Lannisters deserved cruel deaths. But now, she mused, I find that we might be better served with Cersei staying alive. Oh, how quickly things change.
Not so long ago, Nym and her sisters had been all arrested and confined to the Spear Tower of Sunspear for conspiracy to treason. But not long after that, Arianne, Obara, Nym, and Tyene had met with Doran in his solar, to discuss the Dornish plot to rebel. It had seemed a good plan too; Arianne would go north to join with Daenerys and Quentyn as they landed with the Golden Company, Obara would escort Myrcella and Trystane back home, while Nym and Tyene both went ahead to King's Landing via sea They had all been convinced that their long-awaited revenge would be theirs soon enough. But that was when we assumed it had been Daenerys invading the realm, she thought, not this 'Aegon'. How quickly my nuncle's plans fall apart.
Nym felt sorry for Doran, she truly did. His son Quentyn was missing, and Arianne was in the middle of a war.
Doran always waited a good few seconds before replying. Even when he spoke he thought of every word carefully. "I have not received news from Arianne in near a fortnight. Have you?"
"I have not. Arianne was last at Storm's End, was she not?"
He nodded, unhappily. "Tis not going to plan," Prince Doran said lowly. "What of your sisters?"
"Oh, Tyene stayed behind with the High Septon, I'm sure she's doing well there. Tyene gets along well with holy men – my sister is certainly pious. I thought that I was better served returning home quickly with news, nuncle." She finally ate the grape, smiling sweetly as it burst in her mouth. "And as for Obara, well, I'm not sure, I have not spoken to her," Nym lied.
"Obara is at High Hermitage, along with Ser Balon Swann, to bring the Darkstar to justice," Doran replied. Ah, so he had asked only to see if I would answer.
"How grand, Gerold Dayne should pay for his crimes. But is House Dayne of High Hermitage still sheltering that fiend?"
"It appears so. I have sent Areo Hotah to bring him to justice."
"Ah. I thought that the Water Gardens was lacking the captain's presence."
There was a pause longer than usual. Doran's eyes linger on her. She smirked, and something in her gaze spoke volumes.
They both knew the smalltalk was meaningless. Their eyes were fixed on each other, trying to measure the other's stance.
"Nymeria," Doran said finally, "whatever you are planning, do not."
Nym threw her head back and laughed, loud and clear. "You wound me, nuncle. We want the exact same things, do we not? We want to protect our family, to protect Dorne. And we want justice."
"We have different interpretations to what that word means."
"So we do," Nym agreed. "I was willing to go along with your plan before, nuncle. My sisters were as well – we were all eager to assist. I love my family dearly, nobody wants a strife between us. When you told me about the Targaryen alliance you prepared, about Daenerys and her dragons, I was so, so relieved. I had never been happier to learn I was wrong, to learn that you were not the slouch you pretend to be." A touch of sadness entered her tone. Prince Doran didn't speak, he only stared. She still heard the sound of children's cries behind her. "But that plan has not come to pass; neither Daenerys nor her dragons are coming. Instead, I hear that you two Dornish armies amassed at the Prince's Pass and the Boneway which are not marching. You have Lords Yronwood and Fowler standing idle."
"They are waiting on a word," Doran said slowly. "They are waiting for dragons."
"Arianne has already negotiated an alliance."
"I do not call that an alliance," he said foully. "The Imp twisted her arm and left her no choice. This Aegon expects Dorne's friendship, but gives nothing but promises."
"This Aegon could be your nephew," Nym noted. "Elia's child."
"He could be," he said chilly. "Or he could be a pretender exploiting her death, how would I know? Aegon Targaryen was a babe dead for eighteen years, and now he just returns?" Doran shook his head. "My daughter writes well of him, but I will not commit to a failed cause. I will wait, and see if this Aegon is right about Daenerys coming to support him."
Nym's smile turned waxy. Please, nuncle, she begged. I thought you had a spine. "Wait," Nym repeated. "That is all you do, is it not? You waited for your sister's killers to die rather than taking revenge. Do you consider that a victory?"
"They are dead. Tywin Lannister and his creatures rot in the ground."
"And it only took seventeen years. It wasn't even we who killed him. In another fifty years, absolutely everyone involved with those murders might be dead, and you will consider that a victory?"
He didn't reply. Nymeria picked up another grape, squashing it in her fingers. The juice was cold. "While you waited, Prince Viserys died and Daenerys was lost to the edge of the world. You waited for a betrothal that never happened. Decades wasted by waiting," she pressed. "And now you wait for Quentyn to come back, when he never will."
His eyes turned dark at the very mention of his son's name. "Mind your tongue."
"Apologies, nuncle. No disrespect meant," she lied. "I am just tired of waiting."
"Enough of this. What do you want, Nymeria?"
"I tried it your way, I truly did. But your plan has failed, nuncle. Without Daenerys, the victory you imagined is no longer possible. We must try a different approach, and seize the opportunity before us."
He didn't reply. He just stared suspiciously, thinking. The guards standing behind his chair looked tense. Nymeria leant forward on her seat. "It seems to me that the queen's madness is doing more for our cause than dragons ever could. Tyene reports that Cersei is falling towards the same depths of insanity as Aerys."
"And?"
Nym smiled. "Why not give her an extra push?"
There was no reply, but she saw the shift in his features, the tightening of his lips – the prince knew what she meant. She could see his gaze darkening. "King's Landing is balancing on a knife edge, I've seen it myself. The Tyrell queen is being held hostage, while their lands are plagued by ironborn… The Lannister-Tyrell alliance is collapsing. If Queen Cersei does something really drastic, then it all breaks down and the High Septon becomes sure to renounce her – Tyene is working her magic there," Nym said softly. "And we hold Myrcella, do we not?"
Doran's hands clenched. "No."
Myrcella Baratheon was currently at Starfall, where her escort had been halted indefinitely. Originally, the little princess was to head to King's Landing, but then news of the Golden Company made traveling north too dangerous. After the Faith's revolt and the Red Keep locked down, Ser Kevan wrote to Doran asking him to keep Princess Myrcella secure and in Dorne, lest her presence in King's Landing turn a dangerous situation even more volatile.
Ser Kevan is afraid, Nym thought. King Tommen was being held hostage by his own mother, and Faith was at the gates. Cersei had quite successfully pitted Lannister, Tyrell and Faith against each other. That left Myrcella in Dornish hands.
"The little princess," Nym sighed, "what a poor girl. I do feel sorry for her, you know. I hear she's sweet and innocent. It's not her fault that she was birthed into the wrong family. But then again, daughters so often suffer for their family's sins, do they not? I feel like Lannisters deserve a taste of their own medicine."
"She is betrothed to my son." His voice was dark, low.
"Surely you cannot possibly still wish to marry Myrcella to Trystane?" Nym said, incredulous. "Why would we bind ourselves to a losing lion? No, Trystane's betrothal is a union that it is best… severed."
"Nymeria," Doran warned, "we will not hurt children."
What arrogance it is, Nym thought. A commander will send countless sons and fathers to their deaths in battle, but suddenly daughters are forbidden? Why is it that boys are allowed to die in war, but girls are not? "Justice is balance, nuncle," Nym said in a low voice. "They brutally murdered a daughter of Dorne. I can think of no more fitting punishment against them."
"No. Never." Doran's voice turned into a growl. "We spoke of this before. The answer has not changed."
Ah yes, she remembered that 'conversation' well. One time, after the Red Viper's death, the Sand Snakes had been ready for war: Obara had advocated an invasion, Nym suggested assassination, and Tyene favoured rebellion. Doran had replied by imprisoning them all. The Sand Snakes had forgiven the prince for that after he had shared his secret plan, but now his plan had failed.
This time was different. Nymeria and her sisters had come to a compromise that they were all happy with. I want you to be in agreement too, Nym begged silently.
"We will never have a better moment, nuncle. We must act now or we could spend another two decades waiting," she insisted. "Have you forgotten that Cersei tried to arrange the assassination of Trystane too? She had his ambush planned, she meant to blame it on the Imp while Ser Balon performed the deed. Cersei plotted to murder your son to free her daughter from their betrothal. Isn't it justice to return the favour?"
"You speak of vengeance, not justice."
Nym thought about it. "Either one will suffice, truth be told."
"Your father would be ashamed of you right now," Doran muttered, his face twitching. "Myrcella is eleven years old. Have you truly forgotten your own childhood, when you would play in the pools right there? Oberyn would never harmed an innocent girl."
"Yes, well…" Nym shrugged. "My father is dead. He died shamefully and unfulfilled, and I don't want the rest of my family to share his fate."
"You sound determined."
"Very much so. I will not wait, nuncle." Dorne will not wait.
"Very well." Doran paused, and then shook his head, coming to a decision. "Captain," he called to one of the guards. "I am done here, bring me inside. Fetch me Maester Caleotte." He glanced at her. "And then arrange a guard to take Nymeria to the Shield Tower. She is to be kept there under arrest."
Nym sighed. "Again, nuncle? I had really hoped we might find common ground, but do we have to do this once more?"
"Do you give me a choice? You talk of murdering a child, an innocent under our solemn protection. You are my family, my brother loved you so, but you will not leave the Water Gardens."
"I really, really wanted you to stand with us," she said sincerely. "Please, let us talk about this. It is a good plan – a way to make sure our enemies destroy ourselves. We hurt Cersei where she is most vulnerable; her family, her alliances, and her sanity. It is a way to keep Arianne safe."
"I will not discuss the murder of children," he said firmly. It took two men to help the Prince of Dorne to his gouty legs. They had to carry him away. My nuncle has no heart for doing what is necessary.
A big bulky man stood over her suspiciously, holding a spear. She gave him a smile, and then ate another grape. Prince Doran was already having a frenetic talk with the maester as he rounded the corner, and left her sight. I tried, sisters, I truly did.
Nymeria spent the rest of the day watching the pools of the Water Gardens, under guard but with every comfort. Prince Doran refused to allow her another audience. At nightfall, she was escorted back to her chambers. The palm breeze rustled in the cool air, causing her to shiver. The lanterns glowed over the cream spires and arches, making everything seem so serene. Tis a beautiful place.
There were half a dozen men to escort her to her room now. Nym didn't protest, or object. Instead, she just walked inside of her airy chambers she slipped out of her dress. She slowly dressed herself in leather and wool inside, wrapping a dark cloak around her neck. Nym searched for the blades she had brought with her, but found them missing. Doran must have given orders to confiscate my daggers, she thought, amused. Not that I need them.
She knocked on the door, opened it and then sweetly asked one of the two men standing guard out front if he could bring her a cup of tea for the night. He hesitated, but nodded and said he'd find a servant.
Then, as the man bowed and left, Nym turned to the other guard and whispered, "It is time. See it done – quiet and bloodlessly."
That guard bowed and left too. Nym sat back and waited. Let no one say that I did not try to do this reasonably.
Not long later, the guard returned, knocked on her door, and bowed as he entered. "My lady," the man said respectfully. "We are ready."
"Ryden, you are an absolute dear," Nym said with a beautiful smile, flicking her hair. "Any objections?"
"Few, but we can handle them. We support Dorne, my lady. Unconquered and unbowed." Ryden banged his fist against the sun on his breastplate. Then he handed Nym a pair of matching sheathes from his belt. "And I believe these are yours."
She took her daggers back, and placed them over her hips. The dual blades were long and sharp, curved and slender. As she left her 'prison', the guards all bowed their heads. My father always taught me the need to be prepared. "The maester's quarters first," Nym ordered. "There are ravens to be sent."
The Water Gardens were still and quiet. It was the hour of the bat, few were moving. Nym had instructed her men that they needed to move swift and subtly.
She saw Maester Caleotte was still awake, moving restlessly between the ravens as she walked towards the rookery. His old, wrinkled face paled, his mouth stammering. Nym's smile was sweet, reassuring. "Lady Nymeria," the old maester gasped. "You are under arrest."
"No, maester," she said apologetically. "You are."
The maester staggered backwards looking at the guards flanking her. "What is the meaning of this?" The man demanded. "Captain Ryden, your prince gave you an order!"
"I serve for the good of Dorne," Ryden said stiffly, stepping forward. "Not Doran. It has become clear that their interests are not in line."
Caleotte gasped, staring around in shock as he backed up, his chain tinkling. The courtyard was so quiet, but figures were stirring slowly. There was no rush, no panic – just men moving systematically from room to room of the Water Gardens. It had been prepared long before Nymeria had even stepped into Doran's sight. "Please do not fight it, I beg you not to run," Nym said reassuringly, waving Ryden to secure the room. "I do not wish to hurt anyone."
"How could you…?" Caleotte stammered.
"Oh, it was quite easy. After Areo Hotah left, I simply made arrangements concerning the prince's personal guard. There are many in Dorne that are unhappy with my father's death, and my nuncle's inactivity. Many who feel slighted by the Iron Throne." Ryden moved to push Maester Colemon into the wall, but she motioned for him to be gentle. "Our prince has always been reclusive, and the Water Gardens are isolated." Men will not be loyal to what they cannot see. "I had servants placed sleeping draughts into the stew of any guards not on our side. The patrols are asleep, and we will seize the castle without a bell being rung."
"Doran is your prince!" the maester protested.
"That's a title which means very little if the people with swords do not wish to follow him," Nym said, sadly.
Doran had once had all of her sisters imprisoned when he disagreed with their intentions. Later, after Arianne had found Doran's trust, the Sand Snakes had been persuaded to forgive and join forces, but they did not forget. Obara, Tyene and Nym had devised the backup plan together; to seize the Water Gardens discreetly, should the prince's plan fall through. We would never allow Doran to do the same thing again, Nym thought. Still, she felt so remorseful that it actually had to come to this. He should have listened.
There was sounds of a scuffle on the terrace below. Nym heard the muffled grunts of a man who tried to protest. She saw servants running quickly, but the guards were sealing the rooms and hissing for people to stay silent. Please do not disturb the children sleeping, she prayed.
Caleotte was trembling, but he didn't try to protest against the men with spears. All around him, the ravens cawed and fluttered, while Nym took the old man's arm and pulled him to one side.
"Prince Doran…" the maester gasped. "What will you do to him?"
Nym felt insulted by the accusation. "Nothing! He's my nuncle, he's a kind man, I will allow no harm to come to him." She shook her head. "No, but the prince is old and sickly. His legs are stiff with gout, and he needs men to carry him out of bed. Why not grant him more bedrest?"
The maesters eyes were on her, and she could see the realisation dripping before his eyes. "Who helped you?" he said slowly. "Was it Ladybright?"
"I have no idea what you mean," she said innocently, but the truth was yes. Alyse Ladybright, the lord treasurer at Sunspear, was one of three that Doran left behind to manage Sunspear in the prince's absence. Alyse had also been a very close confident of Oberyn's.
"This won't work, Ser Manfrey–"
"– is already taken care of; he turned sickly after drinking from a bad batch of wine, I'm afraid." Caleotte stared in horror. Nym frowned. "Incapacitated, not dead. Manfrey Martell will have an extreme case of the shits and will be bedridden for weeks, but he won't die. Ricasso is old and blind, I'm sure he won't be a problem."
Both the castellan, Ser Manfrey, and the seneschal, Ricasso, at Sunspear had already been sorted – discreetly, of course, and disabled rather than killed. Nobody could stop a coup if nobody even knew one had happened.
Nymeria doubted that any would even realise what had happened here tonight, at least not for a while. So far as the realm was concerned, Prince Doran was still in the Water Gardens – ruling Dorne from his chair, and sending ravens and orders out to his kingdom – while his stewards managed Sunspear. Sooner or later, the news otherwise would spread – but if she was careful then Nym might have a good few weeks before that happened. Maybe months, with a bit of luck.
It will be time enough, in any case, she thought.
She walked around the room, inspecting the birds. Slowly, Nym picked up a scrap of parchment from the pile, making note of the correspondence. Captain Ryden's stare alone kept the maester pressed up against the wall. The old man was still stammering. "This is treason," he managed.
"Hardly. I consider it more a leave of absence. We are all loyal to Dorne here," Nym replied, and Ryden nodded. "No, this is a kindness. It has become clear that Doran lacks the resolve to do what is necessary, and so my sisters and I will remove the responsibility from his shoulders. We will allow Doran an early retirement – he has long been most comfortable watching the children play in the Water Gardens."
And Arianne will be upset, Nym thought, but when all is done, she will understand. Obara was already in position, waiting on the signal. Nym dabbed her quill in the inkpot and leaned poised over the parchment. The black ink dribbled from the sharp point, dark blots splattering over the table like blood. Nymeria kept the message short and concise.
"See it done" she wrote. Three little words, but as dark as the raven's wings.
Maester Caleotte was still making noise, trying to protest, but she barely heard him. Nym spent a long time staring over the letter, just thinking. After a moment's thought, she added another line. Six more words, but they made Nym grin.
"And blame it on Tyrion Lannister."
For Elia, Nym told herself. For her babes, for justice, and for Dorne. Blood for blood.
The Mother
It was eleven days until the Mother's Day, the third new moon of the year – a day designated for the celebration of all those blessed by the Mother's hands. This time last year, Tommen had gifted her a cluster of flowers he had picked himself from the godswood, and there had been a special sermon held in the Royal Sept, in which the Queen Mother had taken a seat of honour.
This year, though, Cersei was expected to shame and surrender herself, her family, on that same day. The deadline of seventy-seven days was fast approaching, and no doubt the High Septon had chosen it to coincide with the Mother's Day deliberately. A day blessed by the Mother.
Over two months she had been trapped in the cursed keep, barely even leaving Maegor's Holdfast, and the mood had only become more dire.
Ser Kevan Lannister walked through the Great Hall with his head raised and his gaze hard. He was clad in full regal armour, with a gold-leafed breastplate showing the Lannister's lion, and a red cloak draping from his shoulders and swirling from the floor. His pot belly was tucked in by a belt fastened so tight that it must have been suffocating.
Ser Kevan and his guards had left their swords at the gates, but they didn't remove their helms. He didn't bow either, and Cersei's eyes narrowed. He should bow. The lack of courtesies spoke volumes.
There was a long, long moment of silence, as Ser Kevan cast his eyes over the ghostly Great Hall. The cavernous room was hushed, and the few onlookers hovering between the plinths never said a word. Nobody was allowed to speak in Cersei's court. Their eyes were desperate, pleading silently at the Lannister envoys. Ser Kevan and his five men were the first new faces permitted to enter the Red Keep in two months.
At the base of the Iron Throne, Ser Robert Strong loomed.
Finally, Cersei spoke, and her voice was low, calm and dead. "Nuncle," she greeted. "Why do you dawdle while the traitors stand at our gates?"
"Niece," Ser Kevan's voice was just as cold. "Where is the king?"
"Retired for the night." This is how he speaks to me? "I am Queen Regent, you will address me as such."
"Where is Queen Margaery, Cersei?" Kevan demanded. "Does Margaery still live?"
Insolence. "The traitor Margaery is imprisoned," said Cersei, "awaiting her trial, and she has already confessed to her crimes."
"Gods damn you," Ser Kevan barked a curse, shaking his head. "Her trial? Cersei, enough. This has to end."
The hall shifted slightly. Cersei could see her guards – her men – stirring at the doors. "Mind your tongue, nuncle," her voice was a whisper, so quiet Kevan could barely hear.
"Queen Margaery is not facing trial, Cersei." Ser Kevan took a step forward. "Your seventy-seven days is nigh at end, and in just over a week the Faith Militant will be barging through the doors. You will either face trial, or you will be brought to trial. The keep will be stormed and the High Septon will accept no surrender after that."
"Then you must stop them. Are you not Lord Marshal, Warden of the West?" Her eyes narrowed. "You lead His Grace's armies, ser."
Ser Kevan shook his head. "You must concede. The High Septon will not allow this, and neither will Lord Tyrell."
Cersei shifted on the metal seat, but she couldn't stand. Her body was hunched, draped in coils of red velvet. Ser Kevan is weak. Why, by all the gods, was my nuncle fated to stand here and not my father? "You would allow them to break through the gates?" she said incredulously "To ransack the Red Keep itself, to break the seat of royal power? You are letting the Faith seize the Crown, nuncle."
"I do not see what choice I have," Ser Kevan replied coldly. "What choice have you left me?"
"Why not grow a spine and do your duty?" Cersei spat. "You're a Lannister. They stand in open defiance to our throne. House Tyrell plots blatant treason with this puppet of a High Sparrow – and you continue to delude yourself–"
"By the gods, Cersei!" Ser Kevan snapped, and the queen even flinched. She had never heard her nuncle's voice break in such anger before. Ser Robert Strong tensed, ready to move should Ser Kevan take another step. "Lord Tyrell is not the enemy! The High Septon is not even the enemy! The greatest enemy to the king is sitting in that bloody chair!"
The words caused her to bristle, pure rage swelling from her body. Her eyes were murderous. One nod, she thought, that's all it would take. I only need to nod, and Ser Robert Strong will smear Kevan's skull over the tiles. Her champion had done it before. "You forget your place, nuncle."
"So do you." Ser Kevan shook his head. "If Lord Tyrell wanted this castle, or even this city, then he could have taken it. I have spent the last two months begging – begging! – Mace to be considerate, but he cannot allow this stalemate last forever. The High Septon most certainly won't." His shoulders were stiff. "At a certain point, they will break down the gates and consequences be damned. Do not pretend as if you have the men to hold the walls."
"I have enough men to hold swords," Cersei warned. "And I gave Mace Tyrell an ultimatum of my own – if he breaches the city, then his daughter, his son, his family will die long before I will."
"Mace Tyrell does not need to breach the city. The city will let him in. The city likes him more than it does you." Ser Kevan's teeth grit. "And what of your own son, the king – do you count him among your list of hostages?"
I will not let them take Tommen. He was the only thing she had left. She would die before she lost her only son. "I will protect Tommen to my dying breath," Cersei warned, her voice a growl. "You are a fool, nuncle. You are such a fool the Imp may as well place you in motley."
"Dammit, you–!" His eyes bulged, and he took a step forward. One more step, Cersei thought. One more step against the throne, and Ser Robert will kill him. She didn't know what would happen after that, but she wouldn't allow Kevan one more step. "I do not work for Tyrion!" Kevan snapped. "Neither does Lord Tyrell. There is no conspiracy, this is delusion! This is Aerys!"
"Mind your place, nuncle," Cersei whispered.
His eyes turned to Ser Robert's hulking figure, standing as still as a statue, and he paused. "… Surrender, niece," Ser Kevan said finally. "Surrender Tommen and Margaery, unharmed, and I can still calm Lord Tyrell. I can persuade the High Septon of a merciful sentence – nobody wants to see more war in the realm. You must surrender."
Do not tell me what I must do. "The Imp is playing you–"
"There is no Imp here!" Kevan barked, nearly bellowing. "Tyrion Lannister is three hundred leagues away, raiding my homeland. I am now the Warden of the West, but I cannot even leave King's Landing to stop him! Mace Tyrell desperately needs to return to his own lands too, but he cannot leave his children behind." The man had a pained expression. "Cersei, you are not thinking clearly."
There it is. He considers me delirious, a mad woman sitting on a man's chair. Cersei had suffered it all her life. It would have worked, she cursed. We could have forced the Faith and the Tyrells to fight each other, we could have played our enemies off against one another. If only Kevan Lannister had a spine, if only men would listen to her.
She hadn't been able to rally any more men to her, not with the whole city in stalemate. Ser Kevan had taken the title Warden of West after Devan Lannister's death, and westerland lords chose him over her. Cersei had fought tooth and nail to secure the Red Keep, to secure her son, but it wasn't enough. Enemies were all around her, yet supposedly 'loyalist' men had still abandoned her, all because she was a woman.
This is Tyrion's doing. She could see her brother's mutilated grin every time she closed her eyes.
There was a long quiet, so long that the entire hall went deathly still. Cersei took a deep breath, just to focus herself. This is my nuncle's final chance. "Ser Harys Swyft," she said finally, her voice low, "your own goodfather. He is dead, Ser Kevan."
Ser Kevan froze, his face twisting into a scowl. Not surprised, only angry. "Damn you Cersei," he cursed. "How could you–"
"I did not have him killed, nuncle," she said harshly. "Rather, Ser Harys was found dead two weeks past, in Maegor's Holdfast itself, with a crossbow bolt through his gut."
Ser Kevan didn't reply, but his eyes narrowed. "Before that," Cersei continued darkly, "It was Ser Boros Blount – he is on death's door right now, after working as a food-taster and ingesting poison in a meal meant for Tommen himself. A meal prepared in these very kitchens.
"Two of my own handmaidens have disappeared in the last four weeks, nuncle," she continued, "and three of my guards were picked off – one ambushed from behind, one with a crossbow, and the other one his stomach gutted with a blade. I had Lord Qyburn inspect the bodies – the wound that kill them came from an upwards thrust; the attacker was of a child's stature."
"Cersei…" Ser Kevan pleaded.
"One of the Redwyne twins – Horas Redwyne – he is dead too, but not by my order. Rather, the boy had snuck out of his chambers, snooping through the keep, he must have seen something he wasn't supposed to, and an attacker killed him," she explained stiffly. "First it was Grand Maester Pycelle and our Lord Hand, and now fourteen more bodies have joined them. An assailant is stalking these very halls, trying to reach me, and my son. How many bodies must there be before you realise it?
"Don't you understand, nuncle? This is him – the Imp is in these very walls."
Ser Kevan didn't reply, but she saw his face grimace, biting his lip. "I locked the gates to keep him out," she growled. "I barred all the exits, there's been nobody in or out, but he's still here. Just like when he killed father, and now he is going for my son."
"Cersei," Kevan said slowly. "Tyrion Lannister is in the westerlands, waging war against Casterly Rock. He leads a force of sellswords hounding my lands, threatening to even sack Lannisport. Ser Benedict writes–"
"The Imp is playing Ser Benedict for a fool!" Cersei could have screamed. "Who else do you think it is? How many other men of short stature do you know, who favour poison and crossbow, with reason to hurt my son? No, the Imp is here – snooping around in secret tunnels and crawl spaces – and it must have been the Tyrells who let him in. He is playing you all for fools."
Ser Kevan gaped at her. "I will not allow him to get my son. Even if I must keep Tommen locked in his room, even if I must keep this whole castle locked down. So no, nuncle, the gates will remain sealed until the Imp and his plans are stopped, once and for all."
Her shoulders were shivering, and she had to flex her hand just to calm herself. "I have given you your orders," she said, lowering her voice again. "Arrest the fraud of a High Septon, force the Faith Militant to disband. Only then will the gates open, and we can focus on these sellswords and the mummer's dragon my brother has arranged."
His jaw was so tense, teeth grinding together. "I will get to the bottom of the murders, I swear I will," Ser Kevan said carefully. "If there has been foul play, I will find out. Nobody – not myself, not Lord Tyrell – is going to allow the Golden Company to take this city. But if you surrender now, I will be able to ensure a compassionate sentence. The High Septon can be convinced. Every man and woman in this castle can walk free out of the gates."
"I will send them over the walls by trebuchet before I allow the Imp to win," Cersei promised. "And Mace Tyrell's family will be the first to drop from the towers. The Imp wants to see me ruined, I will not trust his catspaw."
Ser Kevan froze, glaring. "You have no support, Cersei. None." He doesn't even address me as queen.
"I have the Red Keep. This is the last bastion of the king's rule left in the city, and your negligence could see it ruined. You forget your duty, nuncle."
Kevan shook his head. "My duty is to my king, my family and my realm, but those interests do not align with yours." He paused. "Once, during the Defiance of Duskendale, my brother was forced to sit outside the castle for over a year – unable to act in fear of harming the king, frozen in a stalemate that near-ruined the realm. Tywin could not act, not while the Darklyns held a blade to his liege's throat, but that inaction cost him so much. I will not repeat his mistake." His eyes were grim. "In eleven days' time, when the Faith comes to tear down those gates, I will not stop them. I will help them, and gods damn you for making me.
"So no – House Lannister does not stand with you, Your Grace. House Lannister is in agreement with the Faith and House Tyrell."
I could kill you. I need only say a word, and you will not walk away. Ser Robert Strong was ready and waiting. For a moment, there was nothing Cersei wanted to do more.
She didn't, though. Ser Kevan waited for a reply, but Cersei gave him none. He stood and waited, but then he saw her expression and turned to walk away. Her guards held blades closely, but none blocked him. Her nuncle deserved to die for his defiance, but he was still the strongest voice commanding Lannister men in the city. Matters could become troublesome if Ser Kevan didn't walk out again.
Still, he is a fool. If only Ser Kevan had been willing to act, then maybe it would not have turned so bad. She had allowed her nuncle to enter the Red Keep to negotiate, but in her heart Cersei had known it would be pointless.
Ser Kevan is just too weak.
There was a long stretch of frantic, panicked silence as Ser Kevan left. Cersei didn't stand up from the throne. She needed to stay sitting down on the damnable seat, to hide her swollen stomach from the court. She could not allow anybody to find out the pregnancy, she had taken great care to try and hide it, to stay out of view.
Even after all this time, even despite sickness every morning and constant queasiness, Cersei hadn't the heart to drink moon tea and rid herself of the babe growing in her stomach.
This bastard may be the only chance I have to break that cursed prophecy. If I birth four children instead of three, then the fortune Maggy the Frog set for me will be shattered.
Ser Oswell Kettleblack, upjumped sellsword and traitor, and yet Cersei was still bearing his babe. It was all so bitter she could have laughed.
"I must beg you to forgive Ser Kevan, Your Grace," a kindly voice said carefully, as the white-robed figure stepped up to Cersei's side. Lord Qyburn's eyes were soft, compassionate, and Ser Robert Strong shifted to let him pass. "I'm afraid he's under a great deal of stress. There has been recent news from the westerlands; the caravan carrying Ser Kevan's wife Dorna, his son Martyn and babe Janei was ambushed less than a moon ago, as they fled from Casterly Rock to Cornfield. There is no news yet of any survivors, and the brotherhood without banners is thought responsible."
Cersei paused, thinking of the wrinkled lines across Ser Kevan's brow. She had never seen her nuncle so disturbed, so frustrated. "The brotherhood without banners," she repeated slowly, "is in the westerlands?"
Qyburn nodded. "I'm afraid so. Lady Stoneheart has been moving west ever since Riverrun."
They're targeting Lannisters, Cersei thought, feeling numb. Lady Stoneheart, the hangwoman, had been picking her targets with cold precision. The brotherhood without banners had been born in the riverlands in the wake of the War of Five Kings, but, as the new war emerged, the outlaws had moved to pillage and raze those they deemed responsible. The outlaws razed the Saltpans to seven hells, they hunted down surviving Freys, they even raided Riverrun itself, and then they brought similar destruction to the west.
"It is the Imp," Cersei muttered, and she knew it to be true. Why can they not see? "Tyrion is behind those outlaws, he's exploiting them just as he did with the Vale clansmen. He's using them, setting them to pillage and raze while his army moves west."
Of course it is him, Cersei thought, cursing herself for not realising it sooner. A roving group of outlaws would be the perfect tool the Imp would use to hurt my family a bit more. This Lady Stoneheart likely works for him too.
"As you say, Your Grace."
Finally, Cersei dared to ask, though she feared she already knew the answer. "What of my brother?" she asked. "You have made inquiries into Jaime?"
Qyburn's voice was soft. "I know only what the birds have been chirping, Your Grace," he said apologetically, "and yet whispers have been spreading that Ser Jaime was taken by the brotherhood as well. I'm afraid your brother was captured by both the Hound and Brienne of Tarth, and is said to have been executed by Lady Stoneheart."
He paused, trying to measure her reaction. She did give him one. "One whisper said that they pushed Ser Jaime off the cliffs at Acorn Hall," Qyburn said lowly, "but I have not been able to find a soul to confirm."
Cersei just nodded.
She had refused to believe it for so long. For a long time, she had clung to the hope that Jaime would return, bringing reinforcements from their scattered army that might save her. Her beautiful knight would return to protect his sister and his son. But then the weeks had turned into months without sight or sound of her brother, and Cersei's heart had turned to stone.
We were supposed to be together forever; Jaime and I had been joined for life. And yet Tyrion had stolen that joy from her as well. First it had been Cersei's mother, then her son, her father, her brother… Cersei knew what he was doing. The Imp was going to kill her whole family, but leave her for last.
There is no creature more accursed and wicked than a dwarf.
Qyburn was still talking, gently chattering away while Cersei stared down at the doors on the other side of the hall. "I know that Lord Tyrell is feeling very… stretched, as well. The news from Oldtown has caused many of the Reach bannermen to become restless. The city is said to have been left devastated in the storm, but I cannot tell to what extent the reports have been exaggerated." He grimaced quietly. "My apologies, Your Grace, but with the siege and our movements restricted, I do not have the same sources of information that I used to."
There was no reply. Lord Qyburn sighed, and continued, pacing around the steps of the throne as he talked slowly. "Fear of for his daughter's life has held Mace Tyrell at bay, but that will not last much longer. Without Ser Kevan's support, then we have none of the westerland lords with us, Your Grace. Ser Kevan has seized control of the gold cloaks in the city too," he warned. "And, regardless, both Lord Tyrell and the High Septon maintain a strong presence in the city, and both their forces greatly outnumber his.
"I hear that the Faith Militant continues to grow; a thousand knights have joined the Warrior's Sons, and many times that number Poor Fellows."
A city in stalemate. All around her, it felt like the kingdom was falling apart. The Golden Company had been making great progress, because there was nobody capable of stopping them. Exactly as the Imp planned, Cersei cursed, I tried to break free of the web but I only got myself entangled in it.
"Kevan's inactivity has doomed us all," Cersei muttered.
"Not yet, Your Grace," Qyburn whispered. "We are not doomed yet."
"It proceeds?" she asked, and her master of whispers nodded.
"It proceeds very well," Lord Qyburn said with a smile, but he said no more than that. We can't speak of the plan here, she told herself, not in the court, where there are still those who might overhear. Still, that glimmer in Qyburn's eyes gave her hope.
She knew that he had been scurrying through the tunnel, twice, thrice a fortnight, bringing captives from the city by the score – whores and other lowborn women that she doubted would be missed. The Red Keep had so few serving women left now. She didn't know, or care to know, his reasons for needing so many women. She only knew that he needed captives to… process. Preferably women, and in some quantity for his work. Still, Cersei had seen the results of his efforts, and she was more than happy to finance them.
I am a lioness, she thought, even if my nuncle is toothless, I will bear fangs myself.
"Escort me to my chambers, Lord Qyburn. Your work in the Black Cells is all the more urgent."
"Very well, Your Grace." She winced slightly as she stood up, the pain in her stomach causing her to grimace. "And I will prepare a poultice to ease your back – I know what a burden sitting in that chair is."
"Much obliged, my lord." He is the only true ally I have left. If not for Lord Qyburn's gentle hands, his skills and knowledge, Cersei might truly be doomed. She wrapped his arm around his, stepping down the dais from the Iron Throne. Ser Robert Strong walked close behind.
One week left, she thought. It would be a coin flip whether or not their preparations would be done in time.
I will not let them have my little boy. I am doing this for you, Tommen.
Cersei knew that not even Maegor's Holdfast itself was safe. The Red Keep had degenerated into a tense and frightful place. The cells were overfilled with hostages, many of the doors were locked, and even her own guards never walked anywhere alone. There were shadows everywhere, threatening to strangle her.
The highborn hostages couldn't be trusted, nor could the servants. Lord Qyburn had to prepare the meals for Cersei and the king with his own hands, to avoid poison in their meals. There had been attempts to form riots by their noble 'guests' themselves, and the threat remained of the Faith Militant. Many times now, soldiers with grapnels had tried to sneak over the walls under cover of darkness, to rescue hostages.
King Tommen had to stay locked up in his room constantly; the whole tower was sealed while only a precious few even allowed through. Her son wailed and begged, trapped alone in his chambers for weeks on end, but he didn't understand.
Not even Cersei could walk freely through the castle. Everywhere she went, Ser Robert Strong was a constant shape behind her. Her champion was a hulking, tireless figure clad in steel so thick it could have been used to plate a war elephant. The voiceless knight was stronger than a dozen men, and nothing short of an army could threaten her while Ser Robert was by her side.
It should have made her feel reassured, but it didn't. If they couldn't hurt her physically, Cersei knew her enemies would just find another way to get at her.
One week left. Cersei knew she would need every single day just to prepare.
"Lady Margaery," Cersei whispered as they walked. "Have the men resume their efforts with zeal, we must draw a confession from Margaery quickly. Prepare her, for her trial."
"As your say, Your Grace." Qyburn bowed.
Cersei's one reassurance was that Margaery was surely despising their captivity more than she was. The little whore was locked in the Maidenvault – a place that was too good for her – but Qyburn had handpicked the guards to watch over her and question her.
It was a long day, and a restless night. They barred the door to the queen's apartments, and Ser Robert Strong stood and waited outside like a golem.
She slept in an empty bed, and she despised sleeping alone. Cersei thoughts lingered back to Taena Merryweather – warm and shapely, beautiful and trustworthy. She had been the last person to share Cersei's bed, the last solace Cersei had. And then Taena had been the first victim, the first body to be found, along with her husband and the Grand Maester. The Imp murdered her just to hurt me, Cersei thought, stirring as she tried to sleep. The pain had yet to fade. Another happiness that my brother stole from me.
Cersei didn't actually manage to sleep, but she was still shook by the sound of ringing from the gates early in the morn.
Even before she walked out of her chambers, she knew there was something happening. The drawbridge was raised, but she could still see activity on the streets below. She always could, now. The Faith had been camped outside the castle for months, swarming the streets like rats. A permanent garrison of barefooted mongrels, outside her very gates. They even had raised cloth and straw effigies of topless wantons not too long ago, lifting the caricatures up on sticks in an attempt to shame her.
Now the streets were moving, bells ringing attention. We're not under attack, then – they wouldn't alert us so. Another messenger perhaps? Did Kevan return? Unless her nuncle's stance had changed, there was little to renegotiate.
Cersei had to dress herself, for there were no handmaids left to tend to her.
She wrapped a heavy, red velvet shawl around her shoulders, so long it covered down to her knees. The cool early winter air was cold enough to justify it, and the shawl was thick and loose enough to disguise her pregnancy, at least to anyone who didn't step too close.
Ser Robert was in the exact same position as he had been the night before, waiting to escort her down the stairs.
As she walked through the main hall, she saw Ser Meryn Trant – the last Kingsguard still serving – while he hesitated in the hallway. He still wore his white and silver armour, but his rich, wool cloak was looking rather more grimy since the washerwomen's rounds had ended. "Ser," the queen called. "What is happening?"
"They have spread orders to clear the streets, Your Grace" Ser Meryn replied, looking hesitant. He had never been the best of the Kingsguard, she thought, but he knew where his loyalties lay. "A convoy of Warrior's Sons wishes to bring a messenger through the gates."
"Really?" She frowned. "The Faith has blocked all messages to the castle." The flea-bitten fools even had archers poised to shoot down any ravens coming to or from the keep. Not that it had actually stopped me, as the secret tunnels under the Red Keep remain undetected.
"The High Septon decreed that this one is allowed through," Ser Meryn explained. "They must see it as important, Your Grace. Should we allow it?"
Cersei considered it. The Faith had been very diligently trying to completely cut the Red Keep off from the outside world. Ser Kevan had spent weeks pleading with High Septon to be allowed through. "Do so," Cersei ordered. "But under heavy guard. Double the patrols on the walls – it may be a trap or a distraction – and alert Lord Qyburn when this envoy arrives. No more than four are allowed through, and bring them straight to me before the Throne – do not let any out of your sights."
That damnable iron seat again. Still, she had to sit on it – she would not let herself be seen as anything less than in control when they arrived.
They rang the bells as the drawbridge was lowered, and again when it raised. Still, the wait until they actually passed through the gates and walked to the holdfast was excruciating. Cersei wouldn't pace or twitch, though – she sat rigid like a statue in the cavernous, ghostly Great Hall.
Four men in bright inlaid silver armour, polished to perfection, were walked stiffly through the doors, none of them were allowed swords on their hip. A seven-pointed star was engraved onto their breastplate, they wore rainbow cloaks clasped with silver stars.
Her eyes narrowed. They didn't bow. Why do they refuse to bow?
One of the men – a clean-shaven man with wrinkled eyes – stepped forward. He was withered stork of a man with a stern, sad face like it was carved from gnarly wood. "I am Ser Bonifer Hasty of the Holy Hundred, serving the Noble and Puissant Order of the Warrior's Sons, my lady," the knight said by way of greeting. "I was given explicit orders by the Most Devout not to lower my head in your presence. The Faith honours King Tommen Baratheon, but it does not recognise the legitimacy of your regency."
She tensed. My lady. Another barb meant to hurt her. That disrespect alone was enough to kill him. And yet the Warrior's Sons could well intensify their siege if I do take his head. The Swords and Stars could well become more aggressive. The High Sparrow will likely demand retribution, and it is too early for such rash action. Cersei still needed more time.
"I know of you, Ser Bonifer. Ser Bonifer the Good, as you call yourself," Cersei replied coldly. "You served for Renly, and then you served Stannis. You submitted to the rightful King Joffrey after defeat, and then you abandoned that duty as well to join a rebellion uprising. You seem to enjoy treason, ser." The wages of treason should be death.
She expected him to grimace, or to fluster. Instead, Ser Bonifer only nodded. "I serve what is right and what is just, my lady – as the Warrior commands me to," he said solemnly. "I thought that was Stannis, once, but I was mistaken. And yet the Crone's lantern has cleared the fog from me now, and I serve in the Light of the Seven."
"You serve a fraud, ser." Her eyes narrowed. "You have spent months outside my gates, keeping them closed. Nothing in or out, that was your sparrow's ruling. So tell me, why do you break that rule now?"
"Out of respect for your loss, my lady," he replied grimly, and nodded to his man. One of the knights was holding a box, keeping it at arm's length. "The Most Devout wanted you to see this message as exactly as it arrived."
The Warrior's Son stepped forward, carrying the box gingerly. A heavy box of ebony and silver, smooth and extravagant. The knight placed it solemnly at the foot of the dais to the Iron Throne, and then backed away.
Cersei's gaze went dark, but she didn't step up from her seat to take it. She did not want to reveal her bloated stomach, she would not stand up for these pious fools of knights. She waited until Lord Qyburn scampered across the hall, to lift the box up and bring it to her. The air was silent for a few long heartbeats as Lord Qyburn scampered.
That box, Cersei thought slowly, a hint of recognition coming to her. I've seen that box before.
There was a parchment fixed atop the lid, the envelope left open. Qyburn picked that up first, unravelled it, and brought towards her. They've already read it, Cersei knew, looking at the gaze in the Warrior's Son's eyes. The knights were all tense with anticipation as the dry parchment reached her hands.
She didn't recognise the handwriting, but her heart skipped as she saw the name signed at the bottom.
"My dear sister," the curled letters read. "I promised you that I would hurt you. I said that a day would come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.
"Now you know the debt is paid."
It was signed, "Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock."
There was no visible reaction, but Cersei's hands couldn't move. She just froze, as if her blood had turned to solid ice. "It was brought on a galley from Dorne, my lady," Ser Bonifer was saying as Lord Qyburn bent down the box, the old man's back causing him to wince. "They paid the captain fifty gold pieces to deliver it straight to your hand. We intercepted the vessel as it arrived in port."
The lid opened with a creak. As it opened, she saw Lord Qyburn grimace as soon as he looked inside. Her master of whispers gave something that sounded like a sigh.
Lord Qyburn lifted up a bleached white skull, padded inside the large, felt-lined box. Cersei just stared woodenly, and then she noticed the locks of golden hair that were also shoved inside.
The skull was far too small for an adult. A child's skull; the flesh picked clean off it and the bone so white it could have been polished. It had perfect white teeth that seemed to sneer.
Cersei couldn't breathe. The world turned.
Dorne. It came from Dorne.
That hair… The locks of hair that filled the box. Cersei remembered her daughter's silky golden hair, she remembered stroking it, brushing it as her baby fell asleep in her lap. She remembered Myrcella's smile, her laugh, so bright and full of life.
Empty eye sockets stared back at her.
It had been over three years since she had last seen her little girl, and now the skull was sneering at her. You let them take me, the toothy smile mocked, you let the Imp take me away from you.
Couldn't… breathe. Throat jammed, fingers twitching. Her hands clenched the Iron Throne so tightly that one of the blades nicked her wrist. Blood swelled, but she couldn't even feel it…
All eyes were on her, staring at her so intently, but she couldn't even…
That box, a small part whispered in the back of her brain. That's the same box we used to send the Mountain's head to Dorne. My daughter's head.
They used the same box.
She could have screamed, wailed, but her throat wasn't working. The hall was spinning, the sky was collapsing.
Vaguely, somewhere in the distance, she heard words. Lord Qyburn's voice was weirdly sharp, demanding answers, and the Warrior's Sons recounted the others letters they had received. Even when the skull was set back into the box, she could feel it staring at her. Myrcella's empty gaze was on her, her eyes accusing.
The walls were melting, the ground breaking, her heart dying…
And Cersei was left frozen.
A force of men had been besieging High Hermitage on the order of Queen Cersei and Prince Doran's, voices were saying, to bring Ser Gerold Dayne to justice. To punish the fiend that had maimed the princess's face and murdered Ser Arys. The small force of men led by Obara Sand, Areo Hotah of prince's personal guard, and Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard, to bring the Crown's justice.
Ravens from Dorne said that House Dayne of High Hermitage had refused to surrender the Darkstar to Obara Sand and Ser Balon Swann at first, but then Areo Hotah arrived with more reinforcements. After a short standoff, High Hermitage conceded. They opened the gates, and Ser Gerold Dayne was surrendered by his family.
Areo Hotah, Ser Balon and Obara Sand came to collect him. The Darkstar tried to resist, but he was outnumbered and overpowered.
And then Obara Sand switched sides.
Obara Sand ambushed Areo Hotah from behind while the Darkstar attacked Ser Balon. There had been a fight, a battle breaking out in the courtyard. The Darkstar overpowered and decapitated Ser Balon himself.
Obara Sand had fought Areo Hotah off until the Darkstar could join that fight as well. As the captain of the prince's guard tried to match two against one, the Sand Snake put her spear through the captain's back.
Afterwards, Obara Sand and Gerold Dayne joined forces and rode very quickly to Starfall, where Princess Myrcella was being held. They arrived before news of what happened at High Hermitage could follow them. Together they walked through the castle on the Prince of Dorne's command, and they killed Princess Myrcella in the middle of Starfall itself.
"Armies in the Boneway and the Prince's Pass have started to move north," Ser Bonifer was saying. "Ravens have been flying from Sunspear. Dorne has declared open rebellion, my lady."
Obara Sand. Somewhere through the haze of indescribable emotions, that was the name Cersei focused on. Obara Sand – the bastard daughter of the Red Viper. Her father had fought as the Imp's champion, and then he had the bastard daughter kill Cersei's little princess.
"We understand that this must be difficult for you, and the High Septon is not unsympathetic to your loss. The Faith recognises your right to mourn," the knight continued. "There will be candles lit for Myrcella Baratheon, and the High Septon will pray for the Stranger to take her gently to a better place. And I bring a message from Ser Kevan Lannister too, who offers his very deepest apologies, and urges you to be reasonable–"
"Reasonable? Reasonable?!" she said shrilly, the first words she said since the box opened. She was gasping for air, barely able to breathe… "He killed my little girl!"
Ser Bonifer paled. "I assure you, my lady, that the High Septon will never allow such monstrous act – the Most Devout has condemned the murder–"
"Kill them." Her voice turned as sharp as a knife.
The Warrior's Sons blinked, but Cersei was looking at Ser Robert. "Kill them," she ordered.
Lord Qyburn grimaced, rubbing his eyes. Ser Robert took a slow step forward, and the knights backed away. They were clutching at empty scabbards. "Your Grace, I am a messenger – I came under a banner of truce!" Ser Bonifer screamed. "You promised safe passage, you–"
"Kill them!"
"Stop! By the rights of hospitality!" Ser Bonifer screamed to the giant knight. "In the name of the Fathe–"
Ser Robert didn't even need to draw his sword. The Warrior's Sons tried to flee, but the hulking white-cloaked man lunged with startling speed. So fast that the stones cracked under his massive weight, a solid boom of metal against rock as the iron boots hit the ground. A hand like a sledgehammer shot out, and suddenly goliath fingers were wrapping around Ser Bonifer's head.
Ser Robert's arm jerked, and Ser Bonifer flopped.
She heard the crack of bone. The stones cracked as the man's skull exploded over the hall.
Another of the Warrior's Sons tried to stop him, but then he swung a single, massive backhanded swipe from the gauntleted fist. The man's neck cracked.
The final two tried to run, but they weren't fast enough. Ser Robert was already lunging, yanking the first Warrior's Son by the neck and hoisting him physically off the floor in a casual swing. The other knight barely managed to skitter a dozen steps away, before the body of his colleague was being slung into his back like a rag doll.
Cersei heard their shiny armour clinging together like a broken bell.
They both crumpled to the floor, and Ser Robert walked, slowly, towards them. One of them looked dead, but the other Warrior's Son was squealing, begging for mercy in the name of the Mother. He was squealing right up until Ser Robert raised a massive steel boot, and stomped down on the man's face.
"Your Grace," Lord Qyburn said slowly. Not angrily, or even shocked, just… disappointed. "That may have been ill-advised."
She didn't care. Four bloody corpses were left smeared over the stones, Ser Robert Strong's boots stained with red. Cersei didn't even blink. Her gazed was focused entirely on the box, and that smiling, sneering skull…
"'Ther!" Myrcella screamed, gap-tooth mouth grinning. "Mother! Look what I got!"
She held a butterfly in her hands, her tiny little fingers clenched around her. The four-year old had been so determined to catch one, and so eager to show it off.
The babe was so energetic, so youthful. She couldn't quite pronounce 'Mother', instead she'd skip the first syllable. Cersei's little girl was grinning so brightly, so proudly, as the bright red wings fluttered. Cersei heart swelled, it felt like her chest could have burst…
"Your Grace," Lord Qyburn was saying, though she could hardly focus on the words. "We must…"
"Mother!" Myrcella called, running for her. "Mother!"
Even as a child of five, she was so beautiful and courteous. She grinned as she did her curtsies, but Myrcella was so eager she stumbled slightly as she lowered her head. Cersei could only laugh, kneeling down for her little girl. Her daughter's emerald eyes were glowing, as she clutched a wisp of red fabric. "The septa helped me stitch it," Myrcella said sheepishly, holding up the needlework, "but I made it for you to wear."
It was the worst sigil of a lion Cersei had ever seen, in truth – it looked more like a crumpled dog, and the gold thread was stained red from where the needle pricked her fingers. Myrcella so wanted her to wear it on her dress, but Cersei had to wear the golden clasp instead. Still, the queen kept that handkerchief tucked into her dress, close to her skin, all through the feast…
While most girls were stitching favours for boys or gallant princes, Myrcella only ever stitched for her mother or her little brother.
"May the Mother's blessing be upon you," her daughter giggled, just like the septa told her to…
"You Grace!" Lord Qyburn was shaking her shoulder, just trying to get her to respond. "Your Grace, the Faith will expect its messengers to retu–"
"Leave me," Cersei said, her voice so low and her shoulders so stiff. Lord Qyburn didn't move, and Cersei's voice broke. "Leave me!"
Lord Qyburn backed away. Cersei took a long gaze between the silver box and the bloody tiles, and then her arms shook. She stood up herself, storming away…
"I don't want to go to Winterfell," her little girl squirmed, a strong and stubborn child of seven. "It's cold up there. I hear they have snows during summer."
"You've never seen the snow before, my darling," Cersei chided, tucking at the collar of her dress.
"No, but I heard the septa talking about it. She said that the seven hells were cold, filled with ice and heretics," Myrcella said, "and that the north is half as bad. Do I have to go?"
"I'm afraid so," Cersei sighed. She hoped that Myrcella would never have to see snow at all, that her summer would last forever. "Your father insists."
The girl pouted. "I had bad dreams about the north. They scared me."
"None of that now," Cersei tapped her on the head, frowning. "You're princess and you're a lion. You don't show fear."
She turned around to pick out Myrcella's dresses, while the girl folded her arms unhappily.
"Well, will we see Uncle Tyrion?" Myrcella asked suddenly, her voice turning hopeful. Cersei froze, face twisting into a scowl. "I like him!" the girl protested. "He makes me laugh" …
She nearly collapsed. On to the floor, shivering. There were tears down her cheeks, and she couldn't stop them. Her shoulders shaking, her body trembling. Couldn't move, couldn't…
"Mother," Myrcella's phantom voice called. "Mother…!"
Her daughter's cry was drowned out by the Imp's cackling laugh.
Her stomach was churning, the unformed babe felt like it was writhing. She was doubled other in grief and pain. He did this, Cersei thought. The Imp did this. He killed my little girl.
Her demon brother was laughing at her, making his cruel jests. "My sister," Tyrion's voice mocked in her ear, "I returned your box for you, but the rest of your daughter just didn't fit inside of it!"
It was him, him and that sparrow of a septon, those treacherous snakes, all the fiendish cutthroats, fools and flatterers dancing on his strings…
"Your Grace," Lord Qyburn said nervously, hovering behind her. The master of whispers looked more lost than he ever had. "I apolog– um, there's another parchment inside the box. Another letter."
He was a holding out a different leaf of paper. Cersei could barely see straight through the all the tears, but she needed to know, she needed to…
She grabbed the parchment and stared at it. This one was written in a different hand, a different writer. It's my brother's handwriting, it is. Cersei recognised Tyrion's jotted scrawl anywhere.
The parchment read, "Release the rightful Queen Margaery immediately, dear sister, or I will take even more from you. This is your final warning."
Cersei stared. Her hands tightened, crumpling the parchment in her fist.
It was him. Him and that dolt of a Lord of Highgarden, and the little whore…
I knew it. I knew it was. Her hands curled so tightly her nails pierced the skin. They killed my daughter.
"Where is Margaery Tyrell?" Cersei demanded, so loud that Qyburn flinched. "Where is she?"
"Your Grace, mayhaps–"
"Where is she?" Cersei bellowed, her bloody hands gripping Qyburn's white collar. Her palms were bleeding from the jagged edges of the Iron Throne, but she didn't care. She couldn't feel it. "I want to see her."
"The Maidenvault, Your Grace," Qyburn gulped. "I will have her brought–"
"No." Cersei's voice was a snarl. "I want to see her."
She was already storming upwards, swaying slightly as she walked, her shoes nearly tripping over her long, red shawl. Lord Qyburn called after her, but she couldn't hear it.
It was the first time in nearly four weeks that she had left the Maegor's Holdfast. The bright sunlight was nearly blinding, her shoes tapping down the stone steps. The guards on the door looked stunned and confused as she barrelled past, but Ser Robert Strong trailed behind her in long, slow steps.
The Maidenvault was a long-slate-roofed keep built behind the Royal Sept, pale and proud overlooking the cliffs at the east side of the Red Keep. Two tall carved doors blocked the way, each one showing images of the Maiden herself – that gentle smile sneering at her.
Cersei tottered up the steps, her brother's cruel laugh still echoing on the wind. The doors were locked, she cursed, and likely barricaded too. "Open up!" she demanded. "In the name of the king!"
A hatch opened on the door, and she heard the rustle of weapons. "Who goes th–" a gruff voice bellowed, but it stopped as the man saw Cersei. "Your Grace!"
"Open up. Let me see her."
She heard the clatter of heavy bolts shuddering. They opened with a groan, and a corridor of half a dozen men in tattered armour looked at her. The corridor was a tip – the marble floors of the hallway littered with splats of ale, chicken bones and scraps of rotten food. A flicker past through their gazes with the sight of her, many glancing down to her swollen stomach, but the hulking figure of Ser Robert kept them back.
"Where is Margaery Tyrell?" Cersei demanded.
"In the whor–" a man with sandy blond hair hesitated. "In Rhaena's Chamber, Your Grace."
Cersei was already stepping forward, moving up to the spiral staircase. Qyburn was behind her, ordering to the men. "Go back to your duties," he snapped, panting slightly as he chased after his queen.
There was a man on the upper landing – a gruff and broad figure with cheeks scarred by pox and a ragged beard over his chin – flinching in surprise as Cersei came stepping up. Craster, Cersei recalled vaguely. The door to the chambers was locked and sealed by a slab of timber, and she noticed improvised… tools piled up before it. Lengths of wood, leather belts, and a few chains.
Craster stood by the marble hearth, where an iron pot filled with water bubbled over the fire. "Margaery," Cersei demanded, deep breaths to calm herself. "How have you been questioning her?"
"You– Your Grace?"
"How?" she snapped, "Describe the methods you've applied."
The man paused, stepping backwards slightly. "Lengths of cloth soaked in boiling water, squeezed around her face," Craster said cautiously, motioning to the pot. "Leather belts, occasionally, but softened to avoid welts. We give her nothing but vinegar in her drink, sometimes the boys swapped it out for piss. One time, Raff tied her to the bed, and whipped her with a stick wrapped in wool. You said not to leave lasting marks, Your Grace."
"I did." Her eyes turned to the pot of boiling water. "And the questions?"
"Lord Qyburn instructed us what to ask, and the answers she needed to give."
"Does she give them?" She glanced around the pile of tools, eyes searching for one with the sharpest edge.
"Sometimes." Craster nodded. "Not reliably enough. But we're working on it."
"Not fast enough." Her gaze settled on the iron poker sticking out of flames, its edge glowing red hot. "Leave."
There was a pause. "Leave!" Cersei snapped. "All of you leave, now!"
On the edge of the steps, Lord Qyburn looked disapproving, but he didn't move to stop her. Cersei pulled the iron poker from the flames, flinching slightly as she touched it.
Daena's Chamber had been a lavish room of white marble, but now it was stripped bare – the windows were shuttered and slammed, the silk drapes ripped from the walls and the Myrish carpet torn from the floor. The marble remained, but there was no luxury left – the queen-sized four-poster bed was lacking a mattress, no pillows allowed.
And Margaery Tyrell was standing upright, wide eyes fixed on the door, as Cersei came barging through.
The young woman was pale and gaunt. Her once silky brown hair was like straw, her unblemished skin was covered in ugly, red welts. Lips that had once been red and plump were dry and cracked. There were no silk or satin dresses for her, not here – instead Margaery only a dress that once might have been fine, but now it was torn and stained. The shoulders of her dress were ripped, and her trembling hands had to clutch the fabric to cover her modesty.
The whole room stunk of piss and shit and tears.
She is not more beautiful than me. She was never anything more than a little whore.
The girl's mouth stammered. Her gaze flickered between Cersei's wide and crazed eyes, Cersei's bloated stomach, and then the red-hot poker in Cersei's hands.
Even just seeing Margaery again… so much grief and rage pulsed through Cersei's body that her vision blurred.
Her hands tightened around the poker, the burning end hissing quietly. Margaery backed away, stammering to speak.
Cersei brandished the poker, gripping it like a sword. "Tell me what you did," Cersei said quietly, "You were working for him, and I want you to admit it."
Margaery's mouth hung open, and a for a few seconds Cersei thought maybe the girl had lost the ability to speak.
"You're mad," the little queen croaked.
Wrong answer. Cersei's body flushed with pure, mindless rage. A cry broke her lips as the burning poker struck out.
Margaery staggered backwards, but the burning edge came so close it clipped Margaery's wrist. She shrieked, squirming. "Get away from me!" Margaery howled. "Get away! Somebody help! Help!"
"Admit it!" Cersei roared furiously. "You will confess, you little slut!"
The feeling… it was like gripping a sword. She had always wanted to hold a sword. I want to do this myself.
The woman fell to the floor, whimpering and squirming. Cersei lashed out again, swinging the poker in mad strokes. Cersei tried to lunge, yet Margaery scampered out of the way.
Release Margaery, Tyrion had demanded in his letter. Why was the Imp so concerned for the little slut's safety, unless they were working together?
A vision flashed before Cersei's eyes. The wedding. The little whore had been laughing and smiling, dressed smugly in silk and sapphires, all the while Margaery watched Tyrion drop the poison into Joffrey's cup. They had planned it together from the beginning. Margaery had distracted Joffrey with her low-cut cleavage, while Tyrion did the deed.
Margaery might have been trying to form words, but they were lost in a shriek of pain.
She cowered against the wall, all the while Cersei held the poker's edge against her pretty little face. "Admit it! Admit it!"
He killed my daughter. Tyrion was trying to intimidate her, to her cow her into surrendering. He hopes that I will be so lost in grief and fear that I'll release Margaery. It wouldn't work. Cersei wouldn't let it work.
They had been working together all along.
The little whore raised her hands to cover herself, and the poker clipped against them with a hissing of burning flesh. Margaery wailed. "You killed my son! You killed my daughter!" Cersei screamed, standing over her. "Admit it! Admit what you did."
Tears streaming down her cheeks. Margaery's face was red and twisted with pain. Her dress was falling off her shoulder, her modesty forgotten about. "You evil fucking spiteful bitch!" Margaery wailed through the pain. "You fucking bitch!
She shrieked. The words… they sounded like Tyrion's voice. Cersei's hands lashed out, and the poker stabbed straight into Margaery's shoulder. The girl convulsed, smoke hissing.
Cersei expected her to fall down, and yet Margaery lunged like a wounded animal.
One second she was on the ground, and then the next the little whore was leaping at her. The poker was knocked straight out of Cersei's grasp, and furious hands lunged for her.
The world spun. Everything smelled of burnt flesh. They both landed against the stone floor together with a painful thud, squirming and wrestling.
"You bitch!" Margaery was wailing. "You bitch! You bitch!"
The girl was desperate. Cersei was caught off-guard but her hands struck out, a clenched fist that caught the bitch's cheek. Shrieking, Margaery toppled. Cersei kicked her in the ribs, in the breasts, once, twice, thrice, but frantic fingers grabbed her foot, her dress, and pulled her down.
They were both on the ground. Margaery's arms were skinny, her body frail. Starved and tortured for two months. Even off-guard, even pregnant, Cersei could overpower her.
Yet Margaery kicked and screamed, thrashed and hissed. Squirming with all her might just to push Cersei away.
Cersei's hands were tried to grip her wrists, to hold her down, but them her knees whacked into Cersei's side. She staggered, and lunged for the throat instead.
Margaery was beneath her – on her back like a common little whore – while Cersei's hands wrapped around her neck. She kicked and she thrashed, but Cersei squeezed. She had never squeezed so hard in her life, there had never been anything she wanted to do more…
It felt like her brother's neck.
Margaery's hands were thrashing, squirming at Cersei's face. Her nails were like claws, gouging her. Cersei felt the red worms tear at her cheeks, at her brow, she blinked at the blood swelling over her vision. A knee slammed into her stomach. But she couldn't move her hands.
Cersei was screaming while Margaery gurgled – the bitch's hands tearing and scratching at her cheeks and eyes, her forehead and lips. There was blood spurting downwards, dripping against the floor as Margaery choked.
The little queen's face turned red, and then darker. Her cheeks plumed purple, and her movements became more jagged, more desperate.
Cersei's grip didn't slacken.
It was only when Margaery finally turned still, that Cersei dropped. She was lying bloodied on the floor, tears and blood dripping from her chin. Her hands moved upwards, and she could feel the scratches gouged by the woman's nails. The scratches went deep, they would scar.
Margaery died with her face bloated and eyes ready to burst, and yet she had left Cersei a ruin. The queen could hear Tyrion's howling laughter echoing around the room.
Her stomach was writhing. Cersei felt blood, dripping down the inside of her legs.
As she heard footsteps scampering back at the steps, Cersei was still on the floor. Lord Qyburn looked between Margaery's still corpse, back to Cersei and her bloody face.
"It was him," she gasped. "It was Tyrion. He did this, he did this."
"My queen…" the spymaster knelt onto the floor beside her, wrapping his arms around her shoulder. Blood against his white robes. "It's alright, Your Grace. We can handle us…"
"My son!" Cersei wailed, through the wheezy sobs. "My daughter! They killed my…!"
Qyburn nodded, holding her so, so gently. "They did, Your Grace. They did."
She could feel his hands patting against her back, his body cradling hers. "But we have solution, Your Grace. We have the ultimate solution," he whispered soothingly. His head turned, to stare at Margaery's wide-eyed body. "My skills… they have improved. Joffrey, Myrcella, your father, your brother…. we could bring them back, Your Grace. We could bring them all back."