(King's Landing: 9/22/298 AC) Cersei III
'This damned tourney has gone on for too long,' Cersei thought in annoyance. 'Her 'Kingly' husband had long ago gotten deep into his cups, as usual'. The only reason she had deigned to stay for all these tedious jousts was to keep an eye on the foreign woman from Dragonstone. That up jumped peasant from across the seas, who claimed to be a princess, was no one to Cersei Lannister. 'She was a minor obstacle, nothing more,' she believed. 'Even so, she had aggravated her to no end,' her mind reeled in anger as she continued staring at the woman who had sat down after retrieving her Lord Husband's gold from his fop of a brother. 'Within months after the Rebellion, the bitch had managed to negotiate with that fool Jon Arryn into wedding, the then heir of the Seven Kingdoms, Stannis Baratheon. Somehow slithering her way into the line of succession of the Iron Throne! A feat which even her father had not managed to accomplish between herself and Rhaegar Targaryen!' Exasperated, she clenched her fists and shut her eyes in rage. 'As if that had not been infuriating enough, the woman had been outside the broken tower 'practicing' combat stances with her little whore of a daughter! While that daughter of hers, Ursa, had looked genuinely surprised, Azula Baratheon's face had given nothing away.' The woman had quickly apologized and dropped to one knee, along with her daughter, 'perhaps kneeling too quickly?' While the interloper had been bending the knee, she remembered her stating something about "thinking the place secluded enough to get some training in before sunset." Cersei had glanced towards her brother and her lover's eyes had told her that he would have cut them both down if she had given the word. 'What a foolish idea,' had been her thought, 'we'd never be able to hide it!' She motioned for them to rise, and after a brief talk about the weather and Winterfell, they continued on with their business. The woman had suspiciously refrained from asking the most damning question of all, 'What had Ser Jamie Lannister and Queen Cersei Baratheon been doing alone in the tower?'
The tell-tale sound of the crash of rival jousters had again shaken her out of her thoughts. Her father's bannerman, Ser Gregor Clegane, had just finished knocking Ser Aron Santagar out of the match. 'With any luck, the Mountain or her lover would 'accidentally' kill the heir of Dragonstone in their bout, should Ser Steffon make it that far,' she pondered callously, a hint of a smile tickling her lips. After Ser Gregor had vacated the field she watched, with detached fascination, as men cleared the area to prepare for another match. Much to her and her son's dismay, Ser Steffon was slated to joust next against Ser Barristan Selmy. The drunken oaf had even had the audacity to cheer, with the rest of the gathered peasants, as his nephew had been announced.
"You see there boy?" he slurred, drunkenly swaying from his seat towards her perfect lion. "See how they love him? If you stopped hiding behind your mother's skirts, they would love you too! Gods, he's strong, that one! Definitely a Baratheon!" Her face blanched.
With masked panic, Cersei surveyed the cheering crowd. 'None had heard…' she thought in relief before her golden lion rose abruptly and stalked off. She had tried to console him by reaching for his arm, but he snapped it away. She gazed sadly at the retreating form of her beautiful son, and Ser Meryn Trant, who was closely trailing behind him. Her brother had remained at his King's side, with Ser Boros Blount.
"Bah! Baratheon's don't flee!" bellowed the inebriated stag.
She whirled her head around, to glare daggers at Robert Baratheon, before asking, through gritted teeth, "Your Grace? Do you think it wise to humiliate your own son in front of all these…" , she hesitated in disgust, "people?"
"Of course I do!" he stated with finality, belching at the end. "The boy must face harsh truths and rise above them," he continued, his voice somehow finding stability and resolve even after drinking enough ale and wine to kill ten men. "You coddle him too much Cersei, you weaken him," he said gravely. He held her gaze for what seemed like an eternity, a contest of wills, as the Lion and the Stag vied for dominance over the other. Then, without warning, he shifted his mood and gazed past her. A smile began forming on his face, and she knew what was coming. She felt h before she heard her, and she shuddered in hate.
"Your graces?" she bowed.
"Goodsister! No need for that! Come! Rise! Let me look upon you," thundered, the King, joyfully as he gazed at her. Cersei saw a sense of longing reaching his eyes before he quickly cast it aside. "You grow lovelier with each passing day! My brother is quite a fortunate man. Dour and humorless, but fortunate!" he concluded, as his momentary bout of anger dissipated.
"You flatter me, your Grace," she smiled timidly before giving a slight, but respectful bow. "But surely I cannot be as lovely as your majestic wife?"
'That two faced whore!' Cersei shouted mentally.
"Yes, of course," he said solemnly, before asking, "What brings you to your King?"
"A request," the woman stated.
"Ask and it is yours, Goodsister."
"I had a lordly helmet forged on Dragonstone bearing a passing likeness to your own. The one you wore as you won the seven kingdoms. I was hoping it would not be too disrespectful to ask if my son, your nephew, would have your Grace's leave to wear it during the remainder of the tourney? I know it is much to ask, but…" as she spoke, a worried look began forming on the woman's face.
"Of course, Goodsister!" he interjected before she completed her request. "But first I must view this helmet to see if it pleases my eye."
The Lady Azula shot a quick glance at one of her Flameguard, who nodded in acknowledgment. The man then rushed into the tent which held the jousters. He emerged, a few moments later, alongside the second true born son, of the Hand of the King.
'Bran? Was that his name?' Cersei questioned herself.
He carried with him an object draped in cloth. As he was passing his father and sister, an excited grin formed on his face. The Lord Hand and the Lady Sansa both smiled in return. She noticed Sansa had a slight pause in confusion before returning her little brother's smile. The little northern boy brought it up to the foot of the stands and waited, on bent knee. The Lady of Dragonstone stepped down towards the boy, passing the northern barbarian, along the way. Cersei had noticed the quick glance the Lord Hand and the bitch had shared before Azula had turned her attentions to the Hand's son, who was holding the satin covered helmet. She delicately took the object from the boy and returned towards the foot of the King of Westeros.
"My King, I present to you the humble offerings of the smiths of Dragonstone," she stated after bending the knee and holding up the satin covered offering.
Cersei's husband could barely contain his drunken excitement as he reached to tear the red covering off of the helmet. As he tore it away, the gathered crowd seemed to be stunned to silence. The helmet had a dark, nearly obsidian, sheen that seemed to absorb the light of the sun. The eye slits had the pointed look of an angry man and were bordered within a thin sliver of gold. The mouth slits, on the other hand, were in a simple parallel pattern that arched upward, mimicking a cruel black smile. Finally, at its head, was a crown of buck-sized golden antlers.
"This is bloody MAGNIFICENT!" he proclaimed. "As King, I demand to be allowed to wear this fine piece of crafted steel!"
"I would have none other try it on before you, your Grace," she bowed.
The King of the Seven Kingdoms lifted the helmet off its satin cloth and after a bit of heaving, donned the buck's helmet. "It feels GREAT to be back in some armor!" he said, before looking down towards his hand, who looked amused. "A helmet is STILL armor Ned! Ha! I may not fit into my breastplate, but by the gods, this helmet is good enough!" he continued, his voice reverberating within the helmet. "Well then, that's enough of that," he grunted, as he took off the helmet. "Fine work, goodsister. Your son has my blessing to wear it."
"Thank you, your Grace," she bowed and smiled thankfully, before whirling around and descending the stands to give the helmet back to Ser Steffon's squire.
