(King's Landing: 10/8/298 AC) Cersei VI
The red velvet and golden metal work, lined the open balcony, as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms awaited her only daughter. 'This is horrid,' she told herself, wringing her hands over the scented cloth in her palms, almost tearing the valuable piece of reddish silk. 'Selling her off like a common whore! Bah! I suppose it's better than having that drunken fool give away Tommen to that humorless moron. I'll get Myrcella back, once Stannis and his wife's plots are dealt with. Once they are dealt with…'
'Knock! Knock!' a gauntleted hand rapped at the door.
"What is it!" she nearly barked, grimacing toward the shut entryway. For a moment she stood there, her eyes trying to burn through the ornamented piece of wood. The roaring lion carved on its paneling spoke to her, reflecting her anger at the situation Robert and Stannis had put her in. 'Gods! If only Stannis hadn't had that boy of his, none of this would have transpired! Robert would be well on his way to an early grave, and they could do nothing but sputter empty threats. And Stark! That northern barbarian, he'd still be stumbling about like an ox in a chicken coop!'
"Princess Myrcella, your grace," Godwyn, the loyal Lannister guardsman, replied in a raspy voice.
She pressed down her dress and cleared her throat, striding to the door as elegantly as she could, in spite of her anger. 'Not at Myrcella, no. Never her children, but the rest? Others take them all!' "Enter!" she commanded softly, so as not to frighten her sweet and innocent daughter. 'Oh how scared she must be, but I will not have Robert tell her of this, only me. It should only be me…thank the gods they are not his…' The door clicked, its heavy wooden frame groaning as it slowly swung open. From behind the roaring lion emerged Cersei's beautiful golden-haired daughter, a crown of flowers upon her head. "Myrcella, my dear," she smiled, holding a genuine feeling of happiness at seeing her daughter. A happiness that was quickly forgotten once the reason she had summoned her came rushing back into her mind, along with the sounds of the door shutting behind her middle child.
"Good afternoon, mother!" Myrcella smiled, practically skipping up to her. Cersei felt her lips twitch, as her daughter came close and embraced her. She caught a familiar fruity scent coming from her hair, and wondered if her daughter had spoken to the bitch. She pulled away and stared at Myrcella's rosy red cheeks, placing her hands on them, and feeling their warmth. She felt a slight wetness in her eyes before she let one hand drop while the fingers of the other came to rest around the flowery crown.
"My, my, a crown of flowers," she chuckled mirthlessly, playing with the petals of the white and blue flowers, eyeing them with keen interest as they remained entwined within a ring of bright green vines. For an instant, memories of her childhood flooded into her mind, and she brought her hand down to her lap. Memories of when she had, ever so briefly, believed in the stories of pretty maidens with flowers in their hair. 'A long time ago when mother still lived. When it was just me and Jaime. When I just wanted to fight like the men, be respected like the men, but still be afforded the extravagances fit for a queen. I wanted knights to fear me, to want to be like me, and I wanted them to love me, and give up everything for me.'
"Aren't they pretty mother?" Myrcella looked up to her crown with big emerald eyes, placing her hands on it, and adjusting the thing in excitement. They moved to sit on a cushioned bench of red velvet, near the golden mirror of Dragonstone make.
"Whoever gave you such a thing?" she smiled, sitting down on the luxurious pillow, and looking to her daughter as she sat beside her. Sunlight, bright and pure, filtered through the room and accented Myrcella's lovely young expression, which was still rosy and sweet with eyes full of merriment.
"Cousin Steffon!" she chirped. "I saw him walking in the Godswood with Ser Theon! Prince Oberyn and the ladies Ellaria and Azula were there too! They were so nice!" Myrcella looked up at her, "Cousin and Prince Oberyn said I was the prettiest little girl in the seven kingdoms, and that I would soon grow up to become the most beautiful!"
"That you are, and that you will be my sweetling," she ran her fingers through her daughter's golden curls, struggling to maintain a calm demeanor, the anger nearly breaking her mask. 'How dare they speak to her!?'
"But," the bright smile drooped slightly, "cousin looked so sad when he said it." Those brilliant green eyes looked at her. "Is cousin Steffon going away?"
'Much farther, and for far longer, than he thinks…' She smiled, still stroking her daughter's voluminous, cloud-like, hair. "No," she cupped her middle child's innocent face, nuzzling her nose. "I'm sure he was sad because he knows he would never be able to marry the future most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."
Her daughter beamed in response, a honeyed giggle managing to escape her lips, as Cersei touched the unblemished skin of Myrcella's forehead with her own. "So, my little one," her curiosity at the meeting her daughter had with the Prince and the bitch, pushed aside her need to speak to Myrcella on the matters of her future at Casterly Rock. "Did you happen to overhear what the Lady Azula and Prince Oberyn were speaking of?"
"Oh yes!" she stated eagerly, jittering in excitement. "Prince Oberyn was curious on the state of Dragonstone. He said he wants to visit and see the places uncle speaks of!"
"Oh?" her eyebrow twitched. 'First Eddard Stark, and now Oberyn? What treachery has that whore roped the Prince of Dorne into?'
"Yes, mother. He told me so. The Lady Azula was smiling when he told me. I think she looks forward to having Prince Oberyn there," she looked down and played with her hands.
'I'm sure she does,' Cersei frowned. 'If the bitch leaves with Oberyn and Stark, then that provides quite the opportunity to solve certain problems here…Littlefinger better have pleasing news once he arrives.'
"Mother?" a light voice melted her thoughts away.
"Hmm?" she answered.
"I should like to visit someday," Myrcella stole a look at her, eyes hidden just beneath her curly golden hair. "Cousin speaks of the Grand Academy as a wondrous…"
"No. You would not," she cut in, not ready to allow that sentence to continue. "It is a horrid place with dragons carved in hideous black stone," she hissed, though quickly softened, as she felt Myrcella draw back slightly. "And the Academy?" she sneered. "A haven of lowborn bastards," Cersei recalled Robert's two natural born brats, that the woman had made off with after Arryn's death, "and foreigners."
Her lovely daughter put her head down once more, and Cersei ran her fingers through her hair. "I'm sorry little one, but that castle and that place frighten me. All those tales of sorcery and blood magic being done there when the Targaryens ruled, still haunt my dreams," she lied because nothing frightened Cersei Lannister. "I have my doubts that it has somehow improved under your uncle's tender care." 'Or the bitch's influence.'
Myrcella raised her head to look at her, a thoughtful look coming over that tiny face, and she drew closer. "I've heard the stories about Dragonstone, but if cousin lives there, if he grew up there, it can't be that terrible. He is…"
"You will not visit Dragonstone, Myrcella, and that is final," her words were harsh, she knew, but she had no intention of allowing her only daughter travel to that bleak place. 'Never will you, nor your brothers, ever go to the place where that woman calls home, nor mingle too closely with those that live there.'
Myrcella stiffened, then withdrew, her golden trusses bobbing as she turned. The embroidered golden and red seamed dress shifted with the movement of fidgeting legs underneath. A brief shadow, of clouds blanketing the sun, passed through the room. "Yes, mother," her young eyes were drawn to the cold stone floor.
"Worry not, little one," she embraced her, placing her hands on either shoulder. The next words to leave her mouth disgusted her, but she uttered them nonetheless. "Would you like to visit Casterly Rock again? Would you like to stay with your grandfather?"
Her golden cub remained silent, her uncertainty apparent in the air. "Stay?" she finally asked, eyes still downcast.
"Only for a time, sweetling," she lifted Myrcella's chin, and smiled, gazing into her bright green pools. "Grandfather wishes to spend time with you, to raise you as he did me. Maybe even," her voice caught in her throat, a bitter taste rolling over her tongue, "you will catch a certain knight's eye?"
"Which knight?" she questioned, her interest piqued.
"Ser Loras, maybe. Would you like that?" she looked at her, realizing her need to remain at her side.
Her smile turned into a grim frown as Myrcella took far longer to answer than she expected, and her daughter seemed to realize this as well. "Yes, I would," she answered in a rush, a half smile adorning her soft expression. "You are my mother, you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I would be honored to be raised as you were. But, Ser Loras looks mean, and how long would I be staying?"
A light chuckle escaped her lips, her teeth feeling every bit as dangerous as the fearsome beast her family claimed as their sigil. "Oh no, my dear, Ser Loras just needs a strong hand to guide him. And you won't be there for long," she reassured, 'Definitely not for long.' "A year or two at most," she continued, treasonous thoughts filled her mind, but she did not care, 'Months, if things proceed as expected, now that the woman and that barbarian are stepping out of the picture they are vulnerable…Robert, Stannis, and Renly…two hundred Dragonstone guards, one hundred Stormlanders, a handful of northerners, and a third of the Goldcloaks against five hundred of the best Lannister guards and the remaining Goldcloaks. Ha! The odds do not favor those traitorous fools! The boy may escape for a time, but he will not escape forever…How I long to see that bitch crying after I put her family's heads on spikes!'
Myrcella appeared ready to say something, her brow furled deep in thought.
"I will come visit often to make sure you are safe and happy," she comforted her, taking in her small frame, waiting for a response, and instantly dreading it when it inevitably came.
"What about father?" those innocent words, any child would ask, felt like daggers Cersei's heart.
"He will say his farewells, but he and I felt I should be the one to tell you of this," she could not bear this farce much longer and wished Baelish would arrive to distract her. "Do you remember the stories I told you of why your father and I married?"
"It was because you loved him," Myrcella grew confused at the question, but radiated confidence with her answer.
"That is true," she nearly gagged, the memories of when she had actually cared for him long since having been buried deep within her mind. "But we had not met prior to that moment when the High Septon married us…'I am his, he is mine…'"
"'From this day until the end of my days,'" Myrcella spoke, finishing the words for her, as a breeze sifted through the silk curtains at their backs. "If you did not know him, why did you marry him?"
"Our marriage was going to bring peace to the realm," she countered simply, the true reasons resonated darkly in her thoughts. 'And at the behest of ambitious men. My father, and that accursed old man. Though being Queen had its own allure.'
"You did that for them realm?" her princess asked innocently. "But you still grew to love father even though you had not known him?"
"Yes. I did my duty to help keep the realm secure," she rejoined. "And that is being asked of you," the urge to strangle the Tyrell knight in order to rid herself of this problem, and keep Myrcella close to her, surged through every fiber of her being. 'One day I'll deal with him as well.'
"Ser Loras?" her middle child questioned, far cleverer than her youth would have otherwise indicated.
"A marriage to unify our families. Baratheon," 'Lannister in truth,' "and Tyrell," she placed a comforting hand on Myrcella's own. "But if you do not wish to do so little one, I will not let it happen. You have my word," 'and one that I intend to keep.'
"No mother, I will do what is needed of me," for a moment Cersei had forgotten how young Myrcella was, and she was pleased. "When will I leave?"
She drew in a deep breath and girded herself for her response. "You will leave with Ser Loras, and your uncle Jaime, tomorrow morning. A handful of Lannister guardsmen will accompany you on your journey to the Rock."
A soft sigh was all that she received in response, before hollow words followed shortly thereafter. "Then I must prepare," her golden cub rose from her seat. "I hope to make you proud mother. I will not cry," already Cersei saw Myrcella's eyes water, but no drops fell. "Will you be there to say goodbye?"
"Of course I will, sweetling," she embraced her only daughter with the loving strength only a mother could.
'Knock! Knock!' the gauntleted hand rapped once more.
"Yes?" she answered, releasing her golden princess.
"Lord Petyr Baelish, your grace!" Godwyn replied.
"I will be with him in a moment," she commanded, rising to tower above her daughter. "Now run along, little one, I will come to your room to be with you after I speak with Lord Baelish."
"Yes mother," a thankful smile graced her daughter's lips, her eyes still seemingly on the verge of tears. She walked Myrcella to the door and tapped lightly. It creaked open, allowing her to see her daughter off, and observe the slimy man from a minor house sitting on a bench just outside.
"Lord Baelish," she acknowledged, watching the man rise from his seat.
"Your grace?" he bowed, awaiting her words to allow him to step forward.
She thought about shutting the door but knew it to be foolhardy, now that she was beginning to plot Joffrey's ascension and Dragonstone's downfall. "Enter," she motioned, her hand cutting through the air.
"Thank you, your grace," Baelish replied, with a crooked grin on his face. A minty aroma drifted into her nose as he strode past, his expensive robes swishing to measured movements, ledger gripped firmly in his hand.
The door groaned shut, her hands resting on its cold golden handle. She waited a moment, running through the questions she had, and the answers she wanted. Cersei's anger rose with each question, which brought ever more infuriating answers. She clenched her hand, and pulled at the handle of beaten gold, tightening the skin over her beautiful porcelain hands, and revealing bone-white knuckles. She had no time for games and allowed the annoyance seep into her voice. "I hope you have something for me Baelish. Otherwise, this meeting will be very short," she released her iron grip on the ornamented handle and faced the Braavosi-descended finger lord. A forced, yet pleasant, smile adorned her face, as she came to seat herself on the cushioned bench she had earlier shared with Myrcella.
"Of course, your grace," Baelish answered, still smiling that stupid smile. "What would you like to know?"
"Don't play dumb, Baelish," she warned, her smile still present, though lessened in pleasantness. "The Goldcloaks. Where are we with them?" 'Let's see if his words are the same as the servant's.'
"The ones receiving your 'patronage' are faring well. The woman refuses to touch them," he reported.
The bench creaked slightly as she shifted her weight to one side, and crossed her legs. "Of course she wouldn't touch them. An overreaching fool she may be, but she fears the lion's wrath, as she should," Cersei smiled.
"Unfortunately, the Lady of Dragonstone has been far too eager to snap up what paltry offerings remain," he stated, taking a step forward, before she raised her hand, causing him to stop in his tracks.
"You mean the ones receiving your 'patronage'?" she lifted a brow.
The little man returned to where he had originally stood, still gripping his ledger as if it were his child. "I wouldn't say that your grace, they were merely…" The curtains swayed slightly in the wind, before calming, bringing in the 'refreshing' stink of the city.
"I don't care for your deflections, Baelish. Just tell me, did you sacrifice them to get into the woman's good graces?"
Littlefinger cleared his throat, "I sacrificed no one of import. The woman isn't willing to accept vows of allegiance from just anyone, and no simple sacrifice is enough to earn her confidence. The moment she stepped foot in King's Landing, she's trusted no one."
"Well, she at least has good judgment," she commented, as he looked at her, hands still wrapped around the slim, polished, leather-bound book. 'Stork had mentioned that her master was overly cautious. Especially towards Baelish's 'gifts,' so his words have yet to ring false,' the thought swam in her mind.
"That she does," Baelish stood as still as an arrow. "She wasn't just another pleasing face," he added. "Her exploits had me expecting a brute of low cunning. Imagine my surprise, when she turned out not to be, and that she would require far less overt means to fool. Nothing would ever be enough to gain her full trust, but perhaps it would be enough to glean a whisper or two from her household every so often."
"And do you have any other charitable acts hidden up your sleeves?" she scoffed, a half-hearted chuckle escaping her lips.
"None at the moment," he answered plainly.
"Somehow, I doubt that," she reared forward, clasping her hands together and resting her elbows on her crossed legs. "And the remainder of your men?"
"They still number over a thousand strong, though the new commander has taken great pains to keep them at arm's length, and is far less 'malleable' than his predecessor," Baelish answered back.
"Ah yes, the venerable, Janos Slynt?" She waved a hand and reclined back into her seat. "Have your men identified what caused the fire?"
"The evidence remains the same, and it has remained the same even after Lord Stark abandoned the investigation."
"Hmph, not like Lord Stark to abandon something, especially if it involves foul play," she noted, watching Baelish nod at her assessment. This had given her hope, however slight and fleeting, that perhaps Eddard Stark would cease investigating the nature of Jon Arryn's death and its cause, but she knew better. She suspected that the only reason Lord Stark ceased exploring the cause of Slynt's death was to focus on something more important, and she clenched her hands.
"I would tend to agree," he supplied. "Stark is one of the few people that can have a singular focus on things that concern them," Littlefinger lingered on his words before continuing. "Unfortunate though, a simple kitchen fire. Quite a less than worthy death for the former commander." Baelish's minty breath somehow managed to dance across the room as he spoke.
"Indeed," she stated half-heartedly. 'And a major setback. Slynt may have been a despicable man, but he was a coward who could be bought and was thus reliable. Because no one else could offer more gold or inspire more fear than a Lannister.'
"I was told he found in a corner, roasted alive in his armor. The others had been scattered about, with their burnt forms littering the kitchens and common hall," Baelish seemed to find some amusement in Slynt's death, though she could not figure out why.
"And this new commander? I haven't had the pleasure of meeting him. Lee, was it?"
"Yes, your grace. He is a clever, though rigid man. Gold holds no interest for him, neither do women, nor wine, nor any kind of temptation that could be offered. Like Lord Stark and Lord Stannis, he is a man of singular focus." Baelish shifted on his heels, almost as if in anticipation. "Several of Lee's men watch my own, but they can be isolated if the situation requires."
"And what type of situation might that be?" she led on.
"Nothing comes to mind," he shrugged, holding his ledger to his back, and hiding his hands from view. "Though one should hope that this 'situation' is not on the horizon?"
"It may well be, Lord Baelish," her words came out as ice, and she stared him straight in his laughing grey-green eyes. "I would wish to know with whom you, and your men, stand?"
"With the crown, your grace," he nodded his head. "Always with the crown."
"Hmmm," she glanced at his collar and spotted a small bird pin that she had somehow missed earlier. "A Mockingbird?" she pointed. "The new sigil of your house?"
"Yes," the lord of the fingers replied, looking down at his neck to see the small metal pin.
"Do you know what the mockingbird does?" she queried, narrowing her eyes at his silence, a quiet smirk forming on her lips. "It mimics the sounds of others, birds mostly, insects too. Fascinating animal, such wonderful songs. Do you sing many songs, Lord Baelish?"
"Perhaps not as many as Varys' little birds, but I do have a collection of songs I like to call my own," the answer was smooth and polite.
"Tell me, what songs do you prefer singing? Mine, hers, or your own? Because we Lannisters have our own song. More of a roar really, but you know the one. I would hate for you to mimic what happened to the last people who sought to imitate our song," she rose from her seat, stalking toward the little lord from the fingers. "When the time comes," she touched his pin. "I trust you will make the correct decision."
"I always do," he smiled.
