Felix III
"May I ask a question my lord?" Petrus broke the brief silence hesitantly, his eyes rising from the table ever so slightly as he in fact did ask a question, meeting Felix's gaze for only a moment.
Petrus sat at the thick desk positioned against the wall in Felix's bedchamber. He looked over a series of papers – each less concise and more convoluted than the last – all being concerned with the general dictates and other such nonsense required of Felix at the current moment. There were the manuscripts depicting his diagrams that would be used to begin the process of reconstruction following the city's sacking, the further communications between Felix and Storm's End regarding the embarkment of his fleet of ships – which had officially set off as of yesterday, a day ahead of schedule with arrival scheduled for the first day of next month – and the first designs of the vessel which was to eventually become the flagship of Felix's fleet.
Felix was particularly proud of his work on that design, given just how quickly he had been forced to learn of the more intricate details regarding shipbuilding and naval command. It was a larger vessel, roughly twice the length of any ship in Westeros currently – and almost twice as wide as well – with four masts, two taller central ones and two shorter ones at the prow and stern. In keeping with his findings, there were sails of both triangular and square shape, and some were to be mounted on swiveling pullies, which would permit the ship to catch the wind at multiple different angles allowing for greater speed when travelling upwind or crosswind. There were of course kinks to be worked out, but those could be considered in time, or more accurately, once he held Dragonstone. Until then, there was little he could do.
Robert insisted that Felix make for the last remaining Targaryen stronghold as soon as his fleet arrived in King's Landing, but Felix was rather skeptical of the King's plan. Taking a castle as defensible as Dragonstone was no small matter – unless there were secret entrances unknown to him – and doing it with a fleet of only forty ships would be almost impossible. The Targaryens did not possess that many ships in their fleet, in fact it seemed they possessed fewer than ten, but they could hold the island fortress nearly indefinitely. Given the difficulties, Felix had suggested the possibility of laying siege to the castle rather than invading it. Robert turned this down immediately, stating that Felix had to make sure the Targaryens were killed and that he could not make sure of the goal if he was laying siege, despite its greater safety.
Petrus's eyes flickered down to the desk again, looking over the books and papers. The slamming of skin against wood permeated the room, echoing off the walls. The target rocked as Felix again struck the surface with his right elbow.
He stood aside a wide window where he had set up a tall wooden practice dummy. It was constructed of a smooth wooden cylinder with two balancing legs to prop it up and two cylindrical extensions meant to represent arms. The dummy gave him a target to strike at face or gut level, all while he was forced to maneuver around the 'arms' and the 'legs'. Practicing martial arts gave Felix a distinct advantage when it came to unarmed combat against other experienced fighters, but it also gave him a sense of clarity and calm that did not come when he engaged in sword practice. With a blade in hand, Felix could not help but be consumed by his own mind, analyzing his opponent down to the smallest facial blemish or weathered piece of clothing.
"No need to be so formal Petrus," Felix replied after a short pause, retaking his stance to strike the dummy again. "Also, you just asked."
Unamused, Petrus ignored Felix's jab as he watched his shirtless liege pummel the wooden dummy once again. Felix greatly admired Petrus, even loved him as one might love a great mentor or teacher, but at times his sternness could be absolutely intolerable.
"Do you really plan to kill the Targaryens?" Petrus asked at last, plowing past Felix's layers of bravado and irony.
Felix stopped suddenly, striking the wood with a left-handed blow, his fist lingering there on the surface of the shaven former tree limb. He turned from the dummy, wiping at his brow with the back of his forearm and breathing shallowly. Sweat glistened over his olive skin, skin which was marred by more than a few scars, wounds he had received throughout his life mostly at the hands of the very man sitting at his desk. Petrus was an excellent instructor, but he was not gentle.
He paced back to the desk, using a towel to wipe away his sweat as he sat down, clearing aside a large tome called The Remnants of the Valyrian Freehold written by Maester Calrin Gage – a fascinating man who had died only a few years ago. Maester Gage was well-travelled for a man of his order, having visited Essos on repeated occasions, mostly to spend time researching his personal favorite subject: the Valyrian Empire. The book itself was interesting, well-written too, though the content was somewhat too speculative and fantastical for Felix's taste, just as so many works by Maester Gage. The man was not Felix's favorite of historians, but he just so happened to be the best source for information on Old Valyria, a matter which Felix found himself considering on occasion, as he wondered just how a civilization could possibly last five thousand years. Certainly there had to have been many dynastic changes, but considering that the Targaryen dynasty had only lasted three centuries before the revolt against the mad king, a matter that was quite impressive considering that the Targaryens – living on the outer fringe of the Valyrian Freehold in Dragonstone – were probably viewed as the lowest of Valyrian nobility, it was nearly impossible to conceive that any sort of civilization could hold together for so long.
Maester Gage himself proposed that there were many regime changes during the hegemonic period of the Valyrian Empire, where the nobility of the realm often contested each other for supremacy over particular titles thanks to their muddled succession laws as a result of their tradition of polygamous marriage. The title succession laws left half-siblings to fight over inheritances relatively often, given that it was not exactly clear which spouse of the lord was the one who would give birth to the lord's successors, an undisputed piece of Valyrian history. However, it was also suggested by Gage that Valyria had functioned as some sort of republic for a time where the populace selected a large body of rulers by vote. Felix was not entirely sure how that method of governance would not simply lead to the creation of some sort of proxy ruler – a shadow council of a sort that would direct the empire more cohesively – by the more powerful leaders of the republic, though that was not explained in the slightest by Gage. Nonetheless, the book was fairly decent, all things considered, and Felix considered it well worth his time despite its drawbacks, as Gage rather excellently challenged the traditional narrative of Valyrian history – normally viewed as a conquering oligarchic empire where all landowners received equal say in politics.
"Rhaella Targaryen is a widow, and the others are only children," Petrus continued gravely. "They deserve no punishment for the sins of their father."
"No they don't," Felix agreed, staring at the wall contemplatively.
"So you won't kill them?"
Felix only stared at the wall in silence, neglecting to answer Petrus's question. He knew these walls had very large sensitive ears. Felix may have been in the company of his most trusted advisor, with no one else even aware of their meeting as far as Felix knew, but his trust only extended so far. How readily could he trust even Petrus? Perhaps he was best off not answering or leaving his discussion vague at best.
"Robert wants them dead," Felix decided upon.
He would not kill children, and he would not kill a widow, such actions were needlessly cruel, yet they ensured the security of Robert's dynasty in the coming years. If the Targaryen line were to be ended, the king would – in all likelihood – not face a claim against his title during his reign. Currently, his greatest opposition for the throne was the Targaryen son, Vicerys – the rightful heir to Aerys Targaryen – who would, if left alive, doubtless attempt to reclaim his birthright.
Felix would prefer Robert to handle the Targaryen problem when the Targaryens contested his right to rule. He wouldn't kill children. That said, in order to protect his own position, Felix would have to keep the Targaryens' survival secret, or at least keep his involvement a secret. His current plan was to hope that Rhaella fled to Essos with her children, or – if worst came to worst – allow the Targaryens to escape, then lie to Robert, telling the king that they had fled when in fact they had not.
"But you can't kill them Felix," Petrus protested, pointlessly as it turned out. "Were I considering your father I would not kill you for his crimes."
"My father only committed the crime of being a shit father," Felix stated in reply. "In the eyes of the Seven, or the Old Gods, or the law, he did nothing save love one son more than another."
"It may not be a crime in the eyes of the law or to the gods, but to a child it is an offense worth imprisonment at the least."
Felix smiled, shaking his head in wonderment at the words of wisdom his mentor continued to instill in him to this day. Despite all of his intellect and talent, Felix was after all, still only twenty years of age, not a substantial number when it came to statesmanship, and an even more paltry amount when fatherhood was considered.
"I would urge you to reconsider my Lord," Petrus said sincerely. "This is not a matter to be taken lightly. I do not want you to be reminded of your actions as an old man long after I am gone, wishing you had chosen differently."
"I have chosen nothing currently," Felix stated.
"You cannot be considering-"
"We will speak on this matter later Petrus," Felix interrupted his first and still only sworn sword.
Petrus huffed, very obviously displeased with the development. He returned to his silence while Felix remained unable to truly focus on the matter of the Dragonstone attack which was to come. As of late, it had occupied most of his mind space, while he continued to think of plans which might serve as suitable strategies for invasion against a force which would be deeply entrenched despite its smaller numbers.
"Petrus, may I ask you a question now?" Felix broke the brief silence, intentionally restating Petrus's earlier phrase.
"I will answer any question you ask of me my Lord," Petrus answered quickly, dispersing his frustration in favor of his traditional soldierly manner.
"Are you competing in the tournament tomorrow?" Felix asked.
Petrus appeared surprised for a moment, taking time to collect himself before answering.
"I had not thought I would, no," he said.
"Why not? I would have figured you would be leaping at the chance to prove that you really deserved your knighthood."
Petrus said nothing for a long moment, leaving Felix to only contemplate what the Summer Islander was thinking of. Felix knew that Petrus did have a deep-seated need to show himself to be something more than what the lords he had served expected him to be. They saw no need to knight him, considering that his role would not greatly change were he even to be knighted. Petrus, because of his lack of knighthood, then also remained unable to showcase his level of competence to the realm in tournaments, and Felix was fully aware that he was desperate to show them what he was capable of.
Simultaneously, Petrus was proud, too proud to permit the haughty lords to provide him his own self-worth. Felix admired this about him, but that pride also meant Petrus was extremely unlikely to actually take up his opportunity and perform for the lords like some sort of dancing monkey, another perspective which Felix could understand. Yet, Petrus was perhaps among the greatest swordsman in Westeros – among Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jaime Lannister, and Felix himself – and Felix wanted the other lords to see Petrus's worth. He wanted them to be shocked and awed, to be devastated by the skill of the Summer Islander.
"Well," Felix spoke again, overriding Petrus's silence. "As your lord I order you to compete. Do me proud."
Petrus I
With eyes and mind focused forward to the man before him, Petrus pivoted on his right foot, swiping the backside of his blade downward to redirect the thrust targeted at his gut. The two swords clanged as they met edge to edge, sending vibrations up Petrus's arm, and he knew his sparring partner felt the same force through the clash. Petrus pushed forward then, slashing back with both hands at the clavicle of his opponent.
He felt deeply at peace in these moments, as there was nothing quite like a contest of arms between two men to grow to understand oneself better. Petrus might not have been a deeply contemplative man, or even a particularly smart one, but he knew his own competency: that being to duel with the most dangerous of living men and defeat them handily. In fact, there were very few swordsmen alive who Petrus believed could defeat him, and even those could not defeat him regularly.
Fighting against one of those men now, Petrus watched in fascination as Lord Felix Tabor cut to Petrus's right, dodging around the aggressive attack from his sworn sword. He struck out again, this time with a kick planted on Petrus's hip which sent the Summer Islander stumbling backward in an attempt to regain his balance. Felix chased after Petrus, yet Petrus remained calm, fully diagnosing his surroundings and reminding himself of the calculating mind he faced off against currently. Felix was not one to rush into a combat he was not sure he could win, and he definitely would not do so without some sort of plan to trap and defeat Petrus.
It was this ability above all others that had led to Felix's ability to best Petrus. Though the young lord's technique did not match Petrus's – and his experience in sword combat paled in comparison – Felix maintained effective performance against Petrus via his endlessly innovative mind. Petrus had known and trained many fighters over the years, but none had the ability to analyze and solve problems anywhere near as quickly as Felix was capable of. At first, when training the younger Tabor son, Petrus had barely believed what he saw, a boy gifted with a mind that surely only existed once every century, encased in the body of a generationally talented warrior. Felix took to the sword quickly as one might have expected him to, but it was not combat with the blade in which he truly excelled. He had a natural talent for violence, though that talented was not granted in any specific fashion so much as it was spread out to include any and all forms of violent combat. There was not one weapon in particular which Felix could say he had mastered, yet he could in nearly any situation create a weapon from an object which was seemingly benign.
Petrus, as Felix approached, reset his guard, turning and blocking Felix's oncoming strike with a swatting motion then thrusting forward with his own blade at Felix's exposed back. Felix – with astonishing speed and athleticism – spun quickly toward Petrus again, spotting the oncoming attack and raising his sword to block the attack. The two swords clashed, sliding down to collide at the crosspieces, leaving Felix and Petrus nearly face-to-face. Felix whipped his own blade over the top of Petrus's moving at blinding speed, then – with the two swords still connected at the blades – swiped downward, casting aside Petrus's weapon before lunging out at Petrus's now exposed torso – ignoring the head as the two men were only sparring.
Grunting as he was forced to dodge out of the way of an impressive counterattack, Petrus leaned back, just barely avoiding contact with the blade. Felix attacked again, once again sending Petrus into an evasive maneuver. He continued in this way, dodging out of the paths of Felix's strikes, searching for an opportunity to either escape the close encounter or to counterattack himself.
Eventually, as a small crowd of interested onlookers formed around them – mostly made up of other tournament competitors and those few who had chosen to arrive before the day's events truly began – Petrus spotted his opening. It was an ever so slight shift of the weight toward the front foot as Felix swung his blade forward, a common movement used to generate greater power and speed specifically when the attacker held a positional advantage over the defender, and Petrus felt confident that he could exploit that movement. A simple dodge to the left followed by a kick to the calf would probably be enough to send Felix tumbling or to knock him off balance just enough to give Petrus the time to escape.
Mere moments later, while more well-dressed individuals wandered over to watch curiously – most of them appearing to be knights – Petrus snuck just outside Felix's attack and planted a vicious angled kick to the calf. However, though Felix stumbled slightly, Petrus had slightly underestimated just how large and strong Felix truly was. He was uncommonly giant, standing just shy of six feet six inches and weighing probably somewhere in the range of two hundred forty to two hundred fifty pounds, none of which were idle pounds. Each was solid muscle, capable of making fast twitch movements at a moment's notice, and all that weight helped Felix to resist the inexorable pull of gravity somewhat.
As he was forced to take on more weight with his lead leg, Felix whipped around with a kick of his own planting his heel squarely in the center of Petrus's gut. Petrus gasped as the blow seemingly crushed the skin of his stomach back against his spine. The crowd emitted an audible groan as the kick struck him, but Petrus ignored them just as he would ignore them during the actual tournament.
He pivoted and reversed at once, raising the blade of his sword to defend against any further attacks from Felix to come after him. His decision proved to be a good one, as Felix's own blade deflected off Petrus's with a loud clang while Petrus completed his rotation to face Felix once again, catching yet another strike with a quick parry.
With a chance now available to him, Petrus lashed out in the direction of Felix's neck only to just miss by inches as Felix swayed back while shuffling his feet to create space. Petrus continued his assault with Felix now on the backfoot. The clash of their swords only served to draw an even larger crowd, the faces watching them completely enrapt in the conflict.
Here, Felix's immense skill was truly shown, and even as he was pushed back his feet, hands, and eyes flew. His speed was simply shocking for a man of his stature, with Petrus's roughly matching. However, age and trickery often triumphed over youth and skill, and it was only so long before Petrus was able to break through Felix's defense – no matter how impeccable it was.
Using a technique he invented in the moment, Petrus allowed one of Felix's parries to lift his sword, bringing it closer to his neck. With a sudden burst of energy, Petrus then pushed against Felix's blade, the sliding of metal on metal grating through the air before leaving his sword to rest against the side of Felix's neck. Simultaneously, Felix pushed forward with his own blade, the two swords catching at the quillons while Felix's blade stopped just ghosting the skin under Petrus's chin.
Petrus eyed Felix for a long moment, each man's eyes hard and cold, but it did not take long for the false seriousness to lift, whereupon both men burst into hearty laughter. They lowered their swords as one, clapping each other on the back as the crowd burst into applause. Cheers surrounded Petrus as Felix broke their embrace to raise his hand in the air.
"That was a very crafty move old man," Felix commented. "Almost got me."
"Almost?" Petrus questioned snidely. "As I recall, my sword was on your neck only moments ago."
"You forget that we ended equally dead."
"Then we both lost," Petrus quipped back.
Felix laughed again, prompting a raucous round of laughter from the crowd. As the crowd joined in their camaraderie, a young man pushed through the throng, coming to the center to approach Petrus. His hair was a neatly cut blonde with just the barest hints of a beard growing on his face. He additionally possessed eyes of green which seemed to twinkle amusedly.
"Lord Felix," the young man pronounced, his voice a tad arrogant in much the same way as Felix's. "I was not aware of your expertise with the sword, and you, Ser…" He trailed off to allow Petrus to fill in the gap of his speech.
"Petrus of Walano," Petrus answered.
"Well, Ser Petrus, consider me most impressed. It's not often you see a man who fights in the eastern style made a knight in Westeros, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you don't fight in western style. Where are you from Ser?"
"The Summer Isles Ser. I worked with the Golden Company for some years before Lord Hadrius Tabor I brought me into his court."
"This is Jaime Lannister," Felix spoke, stepping in to make introductions. "Ser Petrus taught me everything I know of swordplay."
"A teacher as well as a warrior," Jaime said. "You should meet Ser Barristan. I'm sure the two of you would get along rather well."
Petrus looked to Felix for a moment in confusion. He was not entirely certain he really wanted to meet Ser Barristan, as he was universally recognized as the greatest knight in the Seven Kingdoms now that Arthur Dayne was dead. Petrus, as a newly knighted man himself, might not find so many commonalities with Ser Barristan as Jaime believed he would.
"I assume you will both be competing in the tourney?" Jaime prompted.
"Petrus will be, but I will not," Felix answered quickly.
"Why not?" Jaime asked, not quite incredulously, but certainly with some sense of disbelief. It was a tone borne of love for the competition, and an inability to understand that others might not love such things.
"There are an endless number of reasons including but not limited to: my preoccupation with my duties thanks to my new position as Lord of Dragonstone, my desire not to suffer an injury which would prevent me from ruling effectively, my views on knighthood which are not particularly favorable, plus my general tendency to get bored, and this event certainly is boring, a-"
"Alright, alright," Jaime cut off Felix's rant, which could have potentially gone on for an hour or more.
Petrus was not entirely certain why Felix did display such a tendency to go off the rails. His liege lord proved to be an oddity even at a young age, showing remarkable ability to completely throw himself into his work – whatever that happened to be, whether swordplay or designing buildings. Felix's mania was extremely unusual, and when he entered that manic state, it was impossible to slow him down. He wouldn't sleep and would not attend even remotely to the people around him or to his personal health. It gave Felix a simultaneous superhuman capability to accomplish tasks and a completely crippling ineptitude when it came to working with other people. When manic, Felix saw people only as obstacles, or conversely as tools to be used to accomplish his goals.
"Ser Petrus, I look forward to seeing you compete," Jaime said. "Perhaps we will even face each other."
"Perhaps," Petrus returned politely.
"Good luck to you," Jaime spoke, sending a nod to Petrus and then to Felix before returning to his own tent where he would likely begin preparations for the tourney.
The crowd gradually had dispersed, most going their own ways after they saw that Felix and Petrus would not be sparring again, leaving the two men alone once again. Felix took a seat on an available stump while Petrus took a long drink from his waterskin before sitting down on another stump across from Felix.
"I'd say that went well," Felix commented. "Now they know who you are, and one of the kingsguard even complimented you. You're a regular social climber Petrus."
"I'm not sure that's a good thing," Petrus replied rather cynically.
"It's a joke, you fool," Felix chuckled. "I know you're not a social climber in the slightest."
"Oh."
Felix laughed at Petrus's confusion, standing from his stump with his breath sufficiently recovered.
"I'll leave you to it then," Felix said as he turned to the arena where the combats would take place.
"Where are you going?" Petrus questioned, knowing that Felix would probably prefer to spend time with him than to rub elbows with the other Lords and Ladies.
"Finding somewhere quiet for the moment," he answered, sheathing his sword on his back as he did so. "Hopefully no one bothers me for at least a few hours. I need to think."
Felix then turned and departed, weaving his way expertly around the comers and goers who knew nothing of special awareness. Petrus chuckled to himself, shaking his head. His liege lord was by far the smartest person he had ever met, and far far wiser than his age would indicate, but he was still young, and young men in positions of power were bound to make mistakes, mistakes which could have disastrous consequences. Petrus had faith that Felix would mitigate most of those poor choices, but he hoped the young Lord would not forget his own life in his pursuit of higher goals.
Cersei II
Another of the early combats, a contest between a knight of House Serrett – vassals to her own father in the Westerlands – and a knight of House Penrose – vassals of House Baratheon in the Stormlands – each man identifiable by his sigil. For Ser Serrett, it was the peacock with tail feathers spread wide, and Ser Penrose, the crossed quills. Cersei did not remember either man's name despite their provided introductions by the master of ceremonies.
She attended the competition rather absent-mindedly, her mind wandering to various topics Cersei found herself completely unable to control. Her thoughts flitted from her new and decidedly unpleasant marriage, to the current unsteadiness of the Seven Kingdoms and her inability to affect it, and to her frustration with the seating arrangements.
Rows of stadium style seating had been constructed in a broad oval all made of wood. Plenty of room was left in the central sandpit to engage in combat, but the high walls around the arena served to keep the combatants well-confined in their competition. Engagement was forced, as there were no escape routes once the fighters entered the arena. Most of the onlookers were commoners occupying the cheaper wooden benches, but the nobility was well-catered to in this instance with seats high above the sandpit to survey the combats. Seats were arranged in order of importance, and in order of closeness to King's Landing. Thus, the further a Lord was from the seat of power, the further his seat was from the king and queen.
Cersei, being queen, had quite an impressive chair, ornately carved with many unique designs crisscrossing over the surface. Robert's chair was a carbon copy, only it was unoccupied while the king of the Seven Kingdoms spent all his time competing in tournaments. What purpose did a king serve if he was not going to rule?
Meanwhile, the king's Small Council – which had assumed effective control over the administration – was seated directly below her feet. Jon Arryn took the central position, flanked by Felix and Petyr Baelish to his left, while Lord Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle sat to his right. Felix in particular looked rather out of place as he dwarfed those who sat alongside him. Petyr eyed the combat disinterestedly, while Felix's gaze tracked the movements of the knights back and forth.
Cersei sighed, shifting in her seat in complete boredom. She had no one to speak to, no one to be in company with, and once again she found herself comprehending the sheer loneliness the position of queen brought. It took a rare soul to speak to the highest nobility in the land without either trembling or prostrating, and an even rarer one to truly attempt to form a connection.
One office which, it seemed, would not be so difficult to form at least a friendship with was the king. After all, as husband and wife, the king and queen were of equal standing in terms of family importance. However, that had proved to be impossible to Cersei, not entirely due to her lack of trying, but Robert was quite obviously not interested in love, not any longer at least. After Lyanna Stark's death, Robert was cast into a stupor which permitted him to feel only two different emotions: rage and lust, and when he did not feel one, he felt the other. Communicating with a man of that sort was impossible. Even being in the same room as Robert caused Cersei's mood to turn sour.
Fortunately though, she had seen less and less of the king each day since their marriage. They had lain together twice only, once on the night of the marriage and once two nights following. Since then, Robert had not made the effort to bring Cersei to his chambers in an attempt to produce an heir. Perhaps that was in part thanks to Cersei's own shrewd ability to avoid him. She regularly disappeared in the evenings, trying to locate a room which would be suitable to make her private bedchamber and also taking to sitting in the gardens well after dark when the stars twinkled brightly overhead.
In their last session, Cersei had seen fit to frustrate Robert throughout the act, trying to distract him, annoy him, and even to hurt him. Her plan was rather effective, as Robert failed to finish that night, and he had not sought her out since. If there was ever another attempt on his part to fuck her, Cersei would resist even more mightily than before throwing all pretenses of kindness to the winds. The last two weeks then, while Cersei had escaped Robert, had proved to be extremely lonely. Was this to be her life, a queen with a heart of ice, eternally unable to love and only capable of spewing vitriol in every direction? Was she to be a cruel morose woman akin to the evil queens of various fairy tales? Cersei did not want to be that woman. She wanted to live, to truly live, not to be some old hag in the body of a goddess.
The combat below completed fairly quickly as Ser Penrose took a sudden nosedive under the pressure of Ser Serrett's attack. There were alternating cheers and boos, certainly determined by the bets of the onlooking crowd. In the row just before her, Felix spoke quietly to Petyr of the combat, appearing to explain some particular concept to him. Cersei found herself leaning forward, wanting desperately to be included in their conversation. At least then she would no longer be alone.
"It's always the footwork that dooms inexperienced fighters," Cersei heard Felix comment as she leaned close enough to hear him. "Power and stability come from the ground, and clearly Ser Brandyn Penrose had shitty footwork."
"Yet another win for me then," Petyr replied smugly as he glanced at Pycelle knowingly.
Pycelle grumbled to himself but remained mostly silent while the next two competitors were brought forth to face one another. This match, as stated by the master of ceremonies, included a young man Brandeth Ashford and an older man. The man appeared to be in his forties, dark of skin, bearing not a hair on his shining scalp. His armor was light, and his sword a perfect sheen of silver. He was introduced as Ser Petrus of Walano.
"Here we go," Felix muttered to Petyr lowly. "Bet big on Petrus."
"One hundred gold dragons on Ser Petrus!" Petyr called out. "Will anyone match me?"
"Your streak of luck is bound to run out eventually," Pycelle mumbled. "Hmm… I will match."
"Excellent my friend," Petyr said, his smirking tone obviously indicating that he found Pycelle to be a fool. "May the best man win."
He then leaned back in his chair, speaking quietly to Felix.
"Your man had better be as good as you say," Petyr stated stonily.
"I give you my personal guarantee," Felix returned without so much as a twitch of his facial muscles.
"Lord Felix?" Cersei then prompted, unable to bear her spell of silence any longer. "Ser Petrus is-"
She stopped quickly as Felix gestured a cutting motion across his throat vigorously, the universal symbol for 'stop talking'. He made a second hand gestured which Cersei interpreted as him asking her to speak more quietly.
"He is your sworn sword?" Cersei completed her question more quietly to avoid the words catching Pycelle's ears.
"And he taught me how to wield a blade," Felix added. "He's at least as good as your brother, and maybe even Ser Barristan."
"I highly doubt that he could match Jaime," Cersei returned, knowing full well Jaime's skill level, and having seen him in countless tournaments before.
"Maybe they'll fight later, and we'll get to find out."
The match was finally started with a roar from the crowd and a flourish of hand waving from the master of ceremonies. Petrus and Ser Brandeth entered into a circling light engagement, where each man searched for holes in the opponent's defenses. It did not take long for Ser Brandeth to believe he found an opening. He thrust forth with a loud cry, only to be flattened by a heavy shoulder check from Petrus. The Summer Islander levelled his blade at Ser Brandeth's throat immediately.
Absolutely terrified, Ser Brandeth immediately began to cry out that he yielded. A chorus of boos erupted from the crowd, all of them desiring more than a five second bout. Meanwhile, the master of ceremonies called out Ser Petrus of Walano as the winner. Petyr cackled while Felix did his best to hide his smile. Pycelle only looked perplexed.
"He invited him in," Felix explained to the others. "Petrus left a purposeful opening in his guard to see if it would draw Ser Brandeth in. Had Ser Brandeth been more experienced he would have spotted the ruse."
"That brings your total up to five hundred Pycelle," Petyr mentioned through wheezes of laughter.
"Yes, perhaps it would be wise not to make any further bets with our Master of Coin, Grand Maester," Varys added. "I'd imagine a Maester selling his chain would be viewed as rather poor etiquette."
The matches continued thusly, with bets being made amongst the Small Council every once in a while. Petyr Baelish very quickly came to be owed a large sum from multiple Lords, and of course from the Grand Maester. Felix would regularly lean back in his own chair to explain the different techniques or strategies that the knights were employing in the arena to Cersei, which she found most helpful both to give her a greater understanding of the battles and to give her someone to talk to just so she wouldn't feel completely isolated.
Jaime's bout was similarly short, as he faced a rather less skilled opponent. He battered the man repeatedly with strike after strike, sending him stumbling back into the wall before collapsing. As he did, the back of his head fell against the wooden baseboards, knocking him out, and Jaime was declared the victor. Robert too fought, bludgeoning his opponent with his hammer, while looking most displeased that his enemy chose not to engage in combat with the king.
Gradually, as the day wore on, it became obvious who the main contenders for the first-place prize were. There was Jaime of course, and Ser Barristan Selmy, along with Ser Petrus. Additionally, there was Ser Anthor of House Blackwood – a vassal of House Tully – who was rather broad shouldered and strong, Ser Bryen Caron of the Stormlands – the heir to House Caron – and finally Robert himself, though Cersei was not sure she even considered him a real competitor. After all, who would dare face a king?
As it turned out, Cersei had her answer only minutes later. Officially in the quarterfinals, and with only eight men remaining, the first match was announced as King Robert against Ser Petrus. Petrus appeared apprehensive at first, though he was far enough away from Cersei that judging his facial expression proved to be quite difficult. But Robert could be heard before the whole crowd demanding that Petrus face him and hold nothing back. Petrus agreed, and Felix's head immediately fell into his hands in frustration.
"Don't piss him off," Felix grumbled to himself, knowing that Robert would not take kindly to losing.
The crowd it seemed agreed with Felix and was extremely displeased with the arrangement. They were beginning to like Ser Petrus with his eastern style of combat and natural ability to make even the simplest moves look extremely impressive, and they knew that a fight against King Robert was no real contest.
However, Petrus did not stand idly by. He engaged Robert just as he engaged all his previous opponents. Robert twirled his hammer, taking swing after swing while Petrus deftly avoided his attacks. In the fight, Robert appeared every bit the bull, a large bruising force which would certainly smash anything in its path, and Petrus was the gnat around the bull's ears always just slightly out of reach from retaliatory attacks. The crowd absolutely roared, their cheers deafening Cersei as she felt herself inexorably drawn into the spectacular showing before her. She hoped Petrus might embarrass Robert, make him look every bit the fool that he really was, but there was no such embarrassment. The bout completed with a simple disarmament where Petrus snaked one arm up and under Robert's hammer before jerking back suddenly to set the hammer flying free of Robert's hands.
A hush fell over the crowd when Ser Petrus set the tip of his blade on Robert's throat.
"Yield," Petrus demanded, his foreign accent sticking out strongly in the stark silence.
Robert appeared enraged for a moment before bursting into a howling laugh. He roared happily, a genuine sound, not the mirthless barks he usually passed as laughter. This was real, and his face showed it too, a wide grin spanning from ear to ear.
"That was the best bout I've had in ages!" Robert remarked.
Then, without warning he swatted Petrus's sword aside and embraced him in a bear hug. Petrus appeared only somewhat confused, while Felix's eyes were as round as dinner plates.
"Let's hear it for Ser Petrus!" Robert shouted as he lifted Petrus's arm high, and the crowd screamed and chanted his name again and again.
The two exchanged a few quiet words down below as they departed the field, leaving Cersei and the Small Council in complete shock.
"What the fuck did I just watch?" Felix questioned incredulously.
"I think you just watched Robert fall in love with your sworn sword," Petyr answered jestingly.
"I wouldn't want to have to follow that act," Jon Arryn commented.
Nonetheless, two men were called to follow: Jaime and Ser Anthor Blackwood. Ser Anthor was very obviously a worthy contender, but he was no match for Jaime. As she did every time she watched Jaime at work with the sword, Cersei felt a warm sense of familial pride. She knew her much smaller brother felt little pride in the family name – the little beast – and Jaime cared not for titles and honor, leaving all the responsibility of upholding the name of Lannister to her. Yet, her father had minimal faith in her, removing many responsibilities from her shoulders, responsibilities that Cersei was fully capable of accomplishing.
She continued her rumination as Jaime slowly wore down Ser Anthor, repeatedly baiting him into overextension then following with counterattacks which force the elder knight into awkward positions while simultaneously exhausting him. Jaime was bound to eventually win this fight, but the contest continued most slowly, leaving Cersei only to consider her thoughts. While Grand Maester nodded off in his chair, Cersei wondered whether she might ever gain her father's trust and respect, or if that was only a mere fantasy to consider.
Tywin respected, as far as Cersei could garner, intellect, but that trait alone did not explain his decisions in favoring some over others. He favored Felix, partially due to his intelligence, but also due to his accomplishments. Tywin respected those who performed their duties adequately. Cersei fit both of those definitions, yet still her father clung to the hope that Jaime would one day be relinquished from his position in the Kingsguard to one day become Lord of Casterly Rock. Perhaps it was easier for him to cling to the hope that one day Jaime would become just like Felix than to accept the reality that he did not have one single child that would fill the role of the father to the degree he desired.
Tyrion inherited Tywin's mind, though he lacked the ruthlessness of his father. Jaime inherited his father's marshal talents and strategic genius, but he lacked the ability to take a long view of the world. Cersei meanwhile inherited her father's ambition and his ruthlessness, but she had not Tywin's talent to cast aside his emotions and personal desires. Additionally, she was a woman which alone made her ineligible to serve as her father's successor.
At long last, Jaime defeated Ser Anthor, having whittled away his defenses to virtually nothing and tiring him to the point of sluggish movement. He then easily dumped Ser Anthor on his face after a skillful dodge and follow up kick to the back. Many in the crowd cheered, though those cheers were not nearly so numerous as the cheers following the previous contest which had been much more exciting.
In the following bouts, Ser Barristan was then named the victor as well as Ser Bryen Caron, thus determining the final four competitors. Each man was formidable in his own right, though Cersei still believed that her brother had the ultimate edge thanks to his quickness. Not one of the other fighters seemed to move so fast as Jaime, though they all possessed more experience, levelling the playing field somewhat.
Jaime's bout was announced first, and he was to face Ser Bryen – who was quite firmly the fourth out of the four men when ranked in terms of their likelihood to finish the day victorious. He paced back and forth in the sandpit much like a caged lion yearning to be set loose from its cage. As the battle began, Cersei found herself being swept along with the excitement of the crowd. She leaned further forward, with her locks of golden blonde hair almost brushing against Felix's shoulder, though she did not notice and neither did Felix.
Jaime engaged Ser Bryen, evidently recovered from his long bout with Ser Anthor, as he immediately took the offensive. Ser Bryen was pressed backwards quickly, barely managing to deflect away Jaime's vicious attacks. His jaw tightened as he attempted to hold his ground, only for Jaime to blow right by him, sending Ser Bryen tumbling. The heir to House Caron shot back to his feet as quickly as he could, only to be met again by Jaime's blade. The direction of the fight seemed assured as Jaime again drove Ser Bryen back into the wall. Bryen ducked as Jaime took a horizontal swipe, just avoiding the attack by inches.
Jaime then followed with an angry knee strike to the face, and once again Ser Bryen was sent stumbling away disoriented. Jaime did not wait for Bryen to recover, immediately following with heavy blow after heavy blow. Ser Bryen raised his sword to block Jaime's incoming onslaught, but being battered and weakened, he had little ability to resist, and only moments later, the sword was flung bodily from his hand as Jaime struck up and through Bryen's guard.
Cersei came to her feet with the rest of the crowd, cheering loudly as any of them. Jaime removed his helm and bowed before them theatrically. He ran one hand through his lengthy blonde hair, a charming grin splitting his face that would make any woman swoon.
"Ser Jaime appears to be even more formidable now than last I saw him," Petyr commented. "And he performed well at the Tourney at Harrenhal."
"He embarrassed my brother then as I recall," Felix added. "Shame Hadrius wasn't here to be Jaime's punching bag again."
The two Vale men laughed together, their familiarity showing quite clearly. Felix had once explained to her that he and Petyr were old friends, cause Cersei to question the validity of his claim, as Petyr Baelish did not strike her as the type to have any real friends. Littlefinger was a chameleon, a man who lingered for a short time with a few loyal allies before casting them aside, yet here was Felix, appearing to be a true friend to Littlefinger.
The penultimate bout began shortly after with many whispering that this was the 'true final' of the tournament. Clearly those who made such claims had no faith in Jaime Lannister, a fact which Cersei was no terribly surprised about. She had caught numerous uses of a nickname of burgeoning popularity to describe Jaime: Kingslayer. It sounded ominous, dangerous, almost cruel, and didn't at all describe Jaime as a person, but it did describe the one fact that the common people knew about him. Cersei wondered how many of those people who spat the name Kingslayer with such disgust knew that the man who they derided had in fact saved them all from certain death at the hands of Aerys Targaryen's wildfire.
Yet, Cersei could not help but agree that the two men were masters of their art. Petrus and Barristan circled each other, engaging and disengaging, swords clashing together or scraping blades. It was like a dance. Where Jaime had battered Ser Bryen, Petrus and Barristan participated in a tradition which had existed since the time of the First Men, an honorable marshal contest of man against man where only the best could win.
She found it almost impossible to track the chess match of swords as the two fighters tried to set each other up for more substantial moves with the intent to end the match. Neither found the upper hand while they battled back and forth, sweat glistening on their brows. The crowd, which had formerly cheered so loudly fell into a hush as each individual watched the trading of blows in complete silence, the awe of the skill before them willing them to be quiet.
Suddenly, with little flourish, Petrus dodged to the right and Barristan's sword sailed by while Petrus pivoted toward Barristan slamming his sword into the plate armor on Barristan's back. The Kingsguard stumbled slightly, catching himself with a strongly placed step before turning back to face Petrus, only to be hit by a kick to the gut. Barristan's armor protected him from the power of the attack, but it did not prevent the transfer of force between Petrus's foot and his body.
Barristan backpedaled, finding space to strike back at Petrus and halting the assault coming his way. There was another brief exchange where the swords clashed repeatedly. Cersei could actually hear the breaths of the two knights now, their effort becoming evident as the conflict grew more and more serious. Not a soul even dared speak, all feeling as though the primal nature of the moment would be ruined by vocalizations of any sort.
At last, the match reached a breaking point when Petrus took a risky angle of attack, reaching around Barristan's guard to press the Kingsguard and put him on the defensive. It worked beautifully, so beautifully that even a completely clueless onlooker – as Cersei was – could appreciate the maneuver. Barristan then quickly found his defenses shattered with his blade facing completely the wrong direction to mount a counterattack against Petrus. Only moments later, it was clear that Ser Petrus of Walano was the victor.
Now, the whole crowd cheered as Petrus of Walano, who was competing in his first ever tournament, dismantled the foremost knight in the Seven Kingdoms. It set up an intriguing final bout to take place between Jaime and Petrus, Jaime who was only now beginning to match the older knights in terms of skill, and Petrus who had only just stepped onto the scene, a man who had been previously unknown.
"I never thought I would see the day when Ser Barristan fell," Jon Arryn remarked. "Your man is quite the swordsman Lord Felix."
"I know," Felix replied sarcastically. "That's why I knighted him, but you should send your compliments to him, not me."
"But he was only serving as House Tabor's Master at Arms?" Varys questioned. "That seems a waste of a spectacular talent."
"So true," Felix agreed with a nod. "Though I suppose we'll have to see if Petrus can take down Ser Jaime."
He then turned in his seat to set his gaze on Cersei. Once again, as with every time she looked at him, Cersei found herself lost in the piercing pale blue gaze. She questioned how one's eyes could simultaneously be so soulless and so vibrant, but she supposed that was only fitting of The Architect. He possessed self-assurance and a deep sense of personal freedom that Cersei could only envy. She was continually dragged down by the circumstances surrounding her, but Felix seemed to be made stronger by them. The larger the storm around him, the more peaceful he appeared. It was in moments such as this where Felix sat still, chatting with the others of the nobility, that he appeared most lost.
"Consider me doubtful," Cersei spoke, recognizing that she might have held her silent stare for a moment too long.
"Ser Jaime might be brilliant, but it seems Ser Petrus is very nearly as fast," Petyr returned. "And he also happens to be a few inches taller and broader. Plus, I would suspect that Petrus has been studying the blade since before Jaime was even born."
"If experience won every battle, then armies would be made of old men," Cersei quipped.
"Fair enough, though I am curious to see whether Jaime's talent is enough in this case," Petyr said.
Eventually, the final competitors returned to the field, Petrus in his light chainmail, boots, and vambraces, Jaime in his well-polished set of Kingsguard armor. However, rather than the master of ceremonies who had entered the arena to introduce the combatants in all the previous matches, Robert marched onto the sand as a peacock might strut about.
"This has been fucking fun wouldn't you say?!" Robert called out, his speech slurred thanks to the sheer amount of wine he had been consuming throughout the day.
The crowd returned Robert's question with an equally inebriated cheer, hooting and hollering loudly. Cersei found it rather distasteful, but it was bearable if only just. She found it odd that people could be so easily influenced by the effects of drink. They could go from being mostly civilized and decent to hateful brutal animals in only a few short minutes.
"As you all know, I've recently been married," Robert continued as the cheering died down. "This is just my way of allowing all to join in the celebration of the new royal House of Baratheon! May our dynasty reign for many years to come!"
The crowd then took up the cheer of 'Robert! Robert!', while Cersei only glared at her husband. He was perhaps the most insufferable man she had ever met, apart from Tyrion perhaps, but Robert easily qualified for her shortlist. Robert looked extremely pleased with himself as if he had arranged the entire event on his own.
"But that's enough of that, let's see some blood, eh?!" Robert cheered. "May the best man win!"
After a loud scream from the bleachers, Robert departed the field while Jaime and Petrus prepared to face each other. Petrus calmly took up a defensive stance, preparing himself for Jaime's attack which he certainly knew was coming. Cersei knew her brother favored a combat where he took the offensive, as it did limit your opponent's ability to strike you if they were spending all their time blocking you. However, Petrus had proved to be extremely effective with both offense and defense, but his counterstriking appeared to be his most formidable skill, one which Jaime would be forced to contend with if he was taking the offensive.
Jaime did indeed make the first move, lunging at Petrus's exposed flesh at the upper arm, only to be swiftly denied by a blindingly fast parry. Jaime attacked again twice more only to be denied on both attempts. They continued probing at each other's defense, each calculating and making note of the other's tendencies and capabilities. It was a practiced process borne of years of study on behalf of both parties, but Petrus seemed to grasp the intricacies of Jaime's style just slightly faster than Jaime grew to understand Petrus's.
Thus, it was Petrus who appeared to have the upper hand in this early stage, repeatedly repelling Jaime and landing counterattacks of his own. He pushed Jaime around the arena, moving him into uncomfortable positions and forcing Jaime to work his way out of them, which further occupied the younger fighter's mind, keeping him from considering ways to defeat Petrus systematically. Cersei even began to wonder whether Jaime would recover, but just as she questioned Jaime's ability to come back, he found his focus.
Like the sudden change of looking at an unlit candle then the next second peering at a lit one, the final pieces of the puzzle that was Petrus seemed to click into Jaime's mind. Quickly, Jaime extricated himself from Petrus's offensive and took the initiative himself. Petrus maintained his cool however, calmly dodging and deflecting Jaime's strikes. Only then did Cersei realize just how perfectly economical Petrus's movements were. She had seen men practice their swordplay often through the course of her life, but very rarely was there a man who moved as smoothly and lightly as Petrus. He was perfectly balanced, always sure of his footing even at the most awkward of angles. Jaime was skilled, but his talent shined above his skill currently, as he was still young, but Petrus – though not as talented as Jaime – bore the traits of a man who had practiced the blade for so long that the sword he wielded truly was just another piece of his body. What Cersei saw was a man working in perfect harmony with the tool he held.
Jaime repeatedly tried to break Petrus, to unbalance or exhaust him, but Petrus's decision making was almost too perfect. Each and every reaction to Jaime's strikes was made without wasting any sort of time, space, or energy. It appeared meditative for Petrus, like a Septon in prayer. The visual information he collected were his prayers, and his god, the sword.
Finally, it was Jaime who mis stepped, and Petrus quickly took advantage of the error. He moved inside Jaime's guard, trapping an arm only to toss Jaime over his shoulder. Jaime crashed to the sand with a thud and a grunt while Petrus maintained his hold of Jaime's sword arm. The cheers erupted from the crowd, as loud as they had ever been, and the voices shouted together, 'Petrus! Petrus!'.
"Do you doubt now Your Grace?" Petyr questioned, ever so slightly smug from the outside, but certainly dripping with arrogant pleasure from the inside.
It was odd to consider the night sky, a beautiful yet infinitely unknowable mystery. She could not observe it at closer distance, but somehow, Cersei knew that was not necessary. All she sought from the sky was that feeling of vastness, one that humans had experienced for thousands of years, yet it continued to draw her in, just as it had her ancestors.
Alone again, Cersei found that looking up helped her to come to terms with her current circumstances. Her position forever separated her from all others. No one could know what it was to be queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her broken soul was the only comfort she could find, as she had given it completely to her ambition. For all her life, Cersei had only ever defined herself by her own desire to strive higher and higher, yet now that she was at the top, she was her own mystery.
"You're up late," a quiet voice commented as the wind sent chills over Cersei's skin. "Couldn't sleep?"
Cersei did not need to turn to know it was Felix Tabor who stood just behind her. He was oddly silent for a man so large, but as he sat the wood which constructed the chairs under the pavilion creaked slightly. He seemed to know just where to sit to make the smallest possible noise and put the least possible stress on the chair. Felix's mind perceived all the little details of the world around him as though they were simple images. He could not help but notice that which would otherwise go unnoticed.
"Pot calling kettle," Cersei replied without providing an answer to Felix.
She at last turned to face him, noting the small smirk which formed on his face at her response. It was a captivating expression, one which Cersei was only further drawn to, simultaneously carefree and arrogant.
"The pot and the kettle may find themselves in the same position, but they are there for different reasons," Felix said, his voice eerily calm.
"Go on, explain then," Cersei said. "Let's hear your sage wisdom."
"It's not particularly wise, merely an observation of behavior. I can't calm down, can't extinguish the fires in my mind. You're rather different. It's not thinking that keeps you awake but feeling."
"What were you thinking about then that brought you down here?"
"Ships, weapons, what Petrus is going to do with the fifty-thousand gold dragons, how I'm going to take Dragonstone without laying siege because Robert won't tolerate a prolonged conflict, why anyone even agreed to let him be the king, I can give you the whole list if you want."
"I don't, that's fine," Cersei returned with a soft sigh. "It seems he's given us both plenty to be concerned about."
"Thank fuck I'm not married to him," Felix muttered, only leaving Cersei to dread her inevitable return to his bed.
"Lucky me, queen of the Seven Kingdoms."
Felix stood again, having only sat for a few minutes at most, and Cersei wondered if he was going to leave her alone again. She knew she didn't want to be lonely now. She almost couldn't take it anymore, being a ceremonial object forever out of reach from all whoever laid eyes upon her.
Moments later, he was next to her, hand outstretched and pale blue eyes somehow appearing inviting. Cersei knew not where he planned to go, but she would go with him. Anything was better than remaining here in her own ocean of pain.
She stuck close to Felix's side, the wind whipping right through her thin nightgown and chilling her down to the bone. He was there to fend off the encroaching frigid air, providing small physical comfort but unquantifiable emotional comfort. Through all of this, Felix was the only one who had been there for her, the only one who had listened, and the only one who Cersei had actually confided in. Whether that was accidental or purposeful on his part or hers was still unclear, but Cersei was glad of it all the same.
They entered the walls of the castle with Cersei still wondering where it was they were going. They walked down hall after hall, passing countless doors and absolutely no guards. Under different circumstances and with a different man at her side, Cersei might have been concerned for her own well-being, but she did not fear Felix. She couldn't fear him, the one person she had ever met who actually tried to understand her.
As they went, Cersei's caught on the sight of a familiar door. Felix's eyes roved back and forth, but he clearly had no interest in it. Cersei stopped suddenly, tugging lightly against Felix as she did so.
"Wait," she said as she broke free of his hold and approached the door.
"What?" Felix questioned. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," Cersei said as she pushed against the door.
It creaked only slightly against the hinges to reveal a lush interior. There was a large four poster bed with soft silken sheets and the airiest down pillows. A colorful rug lay over the floor, and a round table was positioned in the corner of the room, just preceding the edge of a large balcony which looked over Blackwater Bay below. The pieces of furniture within were fine, crafted by expert artisans with neatly applied gold trimmings.
"Can you explain to me why you've stopped here of all places?" Felix asked.
Cersei stepped inside the room while Felix only stood awkwardly in the doorway. Inside, the walls fought off the cold, as did the fireplace built into the door side wall – or it would keep the room if it were lit, which it was not.
"I've been staying here," Cersei explained. "It keeps me away from Robert in the evenings."
"Oh. I suppose that makes sense."
Cersei turned to face Felix as he entered the room after her, closing the door behind him, his eyes shockingly remaining focused on a single entity. He was looking at her, and for once he did not analyze his surroundings as though he expected an assassin to leap out of a shadowed corner.
As she returned his gaze, Cersei found herself once again drawn in, staring at the icy eyes which somehow did not make her feel cold. He stopped, standing close, but Cersei stepped forward too. It wasn't close enough. She was tired of feeling alone.
They seemed to realize together what was happening as though their minds connected. Without any further words, their lips collided. It was like fire, the wellspring of passion pouring forth from herself as well as from Felix simply shocking Cersei. She wasn't sure she possessed this kind of passion, and she was even less sure that Felix did, yet here they were, lips locked together, unbreathing, and each fearful to let go of the other.
Furiously, Cersei felt the heat of the moment take her, the passion now running free and unbridled. It was frightful to know how open and vulnerable she was, but it was exhilarating. Never once had Cersei experienced a feeling of this magnitude or of this kind. They moved unbelievably quickly to remove each other's clothes, hands reaching for any bare skin that might bring them closer together.
Cersei found herself ripping off Felix's tight jacket button by button, while he struggled with the strings at the back of dress. As he finally undid all the various knots, Cersei felt the dress slip down, leaving her completely naked before him. The fear and excitement only grew. She had never experienced a passion like this before. With Robert, it was only ever his duty to produce an heir that drove him to bed with her, but for Felix now, it seemed to be an expression of admiration.
Cersei pushed forward again, capturing Felix's lips and working to toss aside the other articles of his clothing. It didn't take long before they were both completely uncovered, and Cersei was glad of it. To see the body before her was unbelievable. Felix's muscles seemed to ripple like waves beneath his skin. Each and every inch was perfection, like she saw the Warrior himself before her.
They found themselves on the bed, the passion spilling forth again. It was not an animalistic expression as with Robert. Rather it was deeply human, the meeting not only of bodies, but also of souls. Cersei at last understood why the act was called 'making love', not because it was a physical link merely for pleasurable purposes, but because the very act itself only held weight if it was driven by passion of the heart, mind, and soul. It was beautiful.
Together, they finished a total of five times, Felix twice and Cersei three times. They weren't filled with screams or false moans as whores were, but they whispered softly to each other throughout, Cersei repeatedly shivering with pleasure, her body a slave to the passion expressed in her heart. In the moment, though she did not think of it, Cersei finally felt a sense of belonging. Her loneliness disappeared to be replaced by a heart which sprouted wings to fly free from the cage of the body.
Collapsing with great sighs, Felix and Cersei finally extricated themselves from the high, only to fall into the pleasant aftermath that 'making love' brought. Cersei found herself liking that term more and more as she lay against Felix, a foolishly contended smile across her face, her legs tangled with his as though she was unwilling to split apart from him – which, Cersei supposed she was.
It has been written! I hope you guys enjoyed this one. Lots of stuff happened, and some things are setting up for future plot points way down the line, but I promise you, you won't be able to predict how things start going down once we get to the start of the show.
Thanks for reading friends.
-Lars