CERSEI

The flood of idiotic news from the Seven Kingdoms and even from abroad just kept sweeping in. There was no stopping it. Cersei sat and listened to one blithering moron after another, kept a perfectly straight face, and continued digging her secret hole in her leg. First a Summer Islander appeared before the court with a ridiculous story about how Daenerys Targaryen had made friends with a huge, bald eunich from the fighting pits of Mereen who went by the name of Strong Belwas.

The stupidest fucking name I've ever heard, Cersei growled in her mind while her face remained frozen in a bland smile. You can't just give yourself an adjective and say it's part of your name. Nobody calls me Awesome Cersei.

"It cannot stand," the Summer Islander went on, resplendent in his cloak of green feathers. "It offends the senses. I can tolerate a eunich. I can even tolerate a large one. But a large, hairless eunich who refers to himself in the third person? That is unacceptable," he said.

"I happen to agree, but what, pray tell, should the Iron Throne do about this?" Cersei wanted to know. "I fail to see how this concerns King's Landing, or, indeed, any of the Seven Kingdoms in any conceivable way."

"I just don't like Daenerys hanging out with people like that," the Summer Islander complained. "I set sail for Westeros as soon as I was sure it was really her that I'd seen. It is known across the world that good King Joffrey has a tender heart and a creative mind when it comes to solving problems."

"Again," Cersei said slowly, "exactly what do you expect His Grace to do?"

But King Joffrey and Vice King Tyrion, once again in their loincloths, put their heads together and whispered for a moment.

"Mother, I know precisely what we should do," Joffrey said warmly. "We should send Daenerys a card."

"A card," Cersei repeated blackly.

"She will need all the cards she can get if her only friend is this… 'Strong Belwas.' There's no telling how dark of a place she must be in."

"Maybe Strong Belwas is a nice guy," Lord Varys offered.

After King Joffrey had sworn up and down that a greeting card for Daenerys would be arranged within a fortnight, the Summer Islander finally went away. The next man to address the court was a ragged sellsword in the service of the Tyrells. He spoke of Lord Randyll Tarly calling his banners and leading a fearsome host north, to the Wall.

"To fortify the Night's Watch?" Vice King Tyrion asked.

"No, Your Vice Grace," the sellsword continued shakily. "Lord Randyll marches against the Watch."

"What?" Cersei thundered. "What in seven hells for?"

"A raven came from Castle Black. Lord Randyll's fat son was elected Lord Commander by unanimous vote, and it is said that he's declared war on his father's House."

"That's absurd. The Night's Watch takes no part in the squabbles of the realm."

"It would seem," the sellsword said carefully, "that this is no longer so, Your Grace."

Cersei drained her wineglass. Her long throat worked as she swallowed and swallowed and swallowed again. She refilled it and drank that one, too. Then she hurled the empty glass at the sellsword. He dodged and it shattered on the ground. No one spoke. Cersei got up and weaved her way out of the court.

An hour later, she was in the fourth basement of the Red Keep's dungeons, having a weak-willed tormentor scourge her.

"Harder, you fuck!" she screamed. "Again! Your queen demands it!"

"Your Grace," the man cried, looking unhappily at the bloodied whip in his hands. "Are you… sure? Doesn't it hurt?"

Cersei flared her nostrils and let out a long, furious breath. "Not enough, it doesn't. Not with a little bitch like you behind the wheel. You're fired!" She stood up and went to the stone wall, where she began rubbing her destroyed back up and down, up and down, leaving a huge bloody path. She'd mined her leg wound for all it seemed to be worth; the dull gleam of her femur could be seen when she disrobed, and she dared not dig any further for fear of losing the leg entirely. No one wanted a one-legged queen.

When Cersei was finally satisfied, she put her dress back on, kicked the torturer in the shin as hard as she could, slapped his stubbly cheek, and spat in his face. "Idiot," she said on her way out. She went to the rookery and began writing a letter.

A few mornings later, Roose Bolton, the newly-minted Warden of the North, was rising from his marriage bed with Fat Walda. Walda slept noisily; she snored, muttered, and moved around all night long. Although no such diagnosis existed in Westeros, she in truth suffered from sleep apnea. An annoying wife, to be sure, but it was still possible she would give Roose a son to replace his crappy bastard Ramsay, who wouldn't quit hanging around the castle. The boy simply could not take a hint.

The lord of the Dreadfort sighed, dressed, shaved, and went to break his fast. To his surprise, one of his maesters was waiting for him with a letter.

"Here, m'lord," the maester said, bowing and backing away as Roose Bolton took the scrap of parchment and began to read. "We've had a raven, from King's Landing."

"What's it say, pops?" asked Ramsay. He was seated at the head table scratching at a bleeding pimple on his jaw.

Roose looked at him and shook his head. "It must be a jape. But this is written in her hand, I'm sure of it."

"What is it?"

"Cersei Lannister wishes to be flayed," he said.