Throne Room
Barristan stood a thousand times in front of the throne room's great oaken doors before, but never with manacles around his wrists. He shivers at the cold breeze carried by the gathering storm, the pattering of rain still audible deep within the Red Keep. Yet there's some comfort in the rumbling thunder; it reminds him of home, back in Harvest Hall. What will they think of my trial? he wonders. Do they even know without ravens?
The healer pulls the red Lannister cloak close before asking: "Are we supposed to wait for-"
"Silence," Ser Meryn the Kingsguard growls, hand tightly gripping his sword. "Her grace will see you when she sees fit." The swagger he wields belies his shaking hands at the crack of thunder. No, it's not only him but the Gold and red cloaks as well; their faces are sheen with sweat. Did something happen before our arrival?
"I will lead," Barristan whispers, "I understand the procedures."
"Fine. I'm not interested in some-"
"SILENT," the Kingsguard thumps his scabbard. After some time brooding with the storm, the doors creak open. Expecting a dimly lit court, his eyes are assaulted by colourful beams of bright lights. Flinching, his vision slowly adjusts and sees…
"By the Sevens," he whispers, watching strange colourful orbs dance high up between the throne room's columns. "Is that magic?" he asks the healer but she simply shrugs before walking at the guards' urging. They look familiar. Where have I seen them before?
Colourful speckles dance on the faces of whispering ladies and laughing lords, pulpits walling in their path. Barristan regains his wits and keeps a firm face and back; his manacles are disgraceful enough, no need to add another. The Iron Throne's sharp shadow looms over them, a great beast of Targaryen make; he sees now why prisoners often soil themselves before the King.
With a small cough, the bumbling Grand Maester takes the stand. "S-Ser Barristan Selmy. Lady E-Eren Yagokoro. You are standing trial f-for the suspected involvement in the d-deaths of Ser Balon Swann and the Late Lord Hand Eddard S-Stark."
"We're innocent," the healer clicks her tongue, prompting an angry shout from a Lannister guard.
Barristan wonders if that man is a Lannister creature. After all, it was he who ordered King's Landing's gates to be opened during the Rebellion. Another cough and Pycelle begins listing out their judges. "Her Grace, Queen C-Cersei Baratheon." Barristan is sharply aware of her smirk, not unlike the one Petyr Baelish often sports. Lord Stark fears their conspiracy against the King, yet how can I convince others? "His Grace, t-the Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon." Ever since he laid eyes on Joffrey, he always thought the boy had his Uncle's looks. Is he part of this conspiracy, or is he another one dancing to the mockingbird's tune?
"And the M-Messengers of the Maiden, Lady Tenshi Hinanawi and Lady Flandre Scarlet. M-May the Seven bless this trial," the Grand Maester concludes before retreating to his corner.
…
He can't help but stare at the two young girls in shock. They're the Messengers!? Wait, the healer- "Can you convince them to-"
"You both have heard the accusations," Joffrey proclaims, cutting through his whisper. The boy is tiny atop the Iron Throne. "Do you plead guilty to these crimes?"
"Nay, I am innocent," says Barristan Selmy.
"I plead innocence," says Lady Eirin.
The Queen's smile sharpens at their answers. With the crack of thunder, she gives the confirmation. "In the name of King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynars, and of the First Men, we shall begin the trial."
The first person to be called is no other than the Spider, his perfumes of lavender and scented oils washing over Barristan. He never once trusted the eunuch, for he believes the man fuelled the Mad King's paranoia. "I have received many whispers ever since Ser Barristan's arrest," Varys begins, throwing a sad glance at the frowning knight. "Some say on that fateful day Ser Barristan wandered the slums of Flea Bottom, garbed in such poor clothing one could mistake him for a common sellsword."
"Like the one he wears right now?" asks Cersei.
"Perhaps, your grace. I must apologise for later accounts, however, for they are varying. Some claimed he entered a brothel at the end of the Street of Silk, while others say he went to the inn where the Healer of Free Bottom resided. In any case, the last reports are all the same: he marched to the Red Keep's hidden passage with a silver-haired woman in tow, no doubt for the King's bedchamber. That is all I have." And with that mummer's performance, the eunuch bows his head.
"…Kingsguard in a brothel…" someone in the back whispers.
"…sullying the honour…" says another.
"Ser Barristan Selmy, Lady Eren. Are these whispers true?"
"…Yes, I did visit Flea Bottom," he admits to the gasp of many. "But it was not for whoring nor vices! I would never break the sacred vows," he glares at the Spider who looks offended at the gesture. "No, it was to see the healer, Lady Eirin, and bring her here to heal the King!"
"You brought a stranger to the Red Keep," the Queen scoffs, "someone who nary knows poultices and ointments."
"No, she's- Lord Varys!" he calls out, surprising the eunuch. "You have eyes and ears all over King's Landing yet you claim ignorance of the healer's presence? You must know of her reputation."
The Spider tilts his head in thought before answering. "Why yes, she indeed has quite the reputation in Flea Bottom. Many street urchins, beggars, and sometimes sellswords of ill-repute visit her establishment." The whispers are louder now. "Not only that but there are some interesting accounts from her patients as well. For example," he pulls out a small sheet from his sleeve, "a young man named Cory explained that 'the main room was filled with blades and eerie glowing potions. Often the table would be speckled with blood as if one was butchered there.' I'm sorry to say but I'm not familiar with a healer's space, so perhaps such a state is a common occurrence."
"I must s-say it is not," the Grand Maester peeps up, tugging at his beard. "Even a travelling septon understands the importance of cleanliness. To c-claim to be a healer with that conduct?" He shakes his head. "Disgraceful."
"I always try to keep my operating area clean, Varys," Lady Eirin answers, voice lined with anger. "I don't know who gave you that information but I can assure you it's an exaggeration. Besides, the space would be much cleaner if my assistant followed orders," she clicks her tongue.
"Ah yes, the innkeep by the name of Lya…" the eunuch smirks but makes no additional comments. "What shall you make of this, your grace?"
"We heard from your tongue that you did visit this woman, Ser Barristan Selmy. If I recall, you were tasked to guard Robert's bedchamber that day. And so you left your post, your ill and vulnerable King, to have liaison with this Eren?" the Queen tuts. "Do you have no shame, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?"
"The man's barely a Kingsguard," says Petyr Baelish, "he's not even in white."
"I did not want to sully my cloak when-"
"Ah, afraid to stain your white breeches? They did say the older you get, the less control you have," Littlefinger japes, earning raucous laughter from the pulpit and reddened cheeks from the old knight. The healer cringes; Barristan can only imagine the shame she feels at such disgusting accusations.
"Your whispers have been enlightening, Lord Varys. For now, I have no doubts about their involvement in this tragedy," the Queen concludes. "Joffrey?"
"You're not fit to be a Kingsguard," the Prince spits. "My father should have crushed your chest like he did with Rhaegar! Alas, here we are. Be grateful that my fellow judges have the hearts of women, traitors."
"Says the boy who cried at a little light show," the blue-haired Messenger cackles. To Barristan's surprise, the Prince doesn't bite back at that comment; the boy's face looks conflicted, half torn between yelling or keeping calm. "Hmm…" the girl flexes her black gauntlets. "The wrinkled bug looks pretty guilty if you ask me. You though," she points at Lady Eirin before smirking, "well, let's hear more words from the others. Flan?"
"Hmm?" the blonde girl blinks her tiredness away. "Yeah, um, mister knight sounds shady," she yawns. "Can I have a drink? I'm thirsty."
"Certainly, your Holiness," the High Septon bows before procuring a drink from a septa. So they're higher ranking than him. And if they're the ones who cast the lights… There's an advantage here, he knows that. A Kingsguard is not only the King's protector but also one of his counsels, yet he's a Selmy, not a Spider.
As Varys leaves the stand, Barristan whispers: "What do you know of them, Lady Eirin? What do they like?"
"Violence," she replies. A disheartening answer. Or maybe...
Lightning flashes through the painted windows as Janos Slynt takes the stage. With a crooked smile, the rumble of thunder carries his accusations. "Hear me, oh Lords and Ladies, when I say that I, Commander of the Gold Cloaks, understand violence. You must have heard of the murders in the streets of King's Landing, such foul and grisly affairs. Poor mothers and their whelps murdered beneath the veil of night. Well," the man's jowls shiver, "what I saw in the King's bedchamber were much worse."
Barristan doesn't like the way he talks. The knight had been acquainted for some time with Janos Slynt, and the words and cadence he uses here are far too… Skilled. Someone paid him, of course, and wrote his words! Who was it that convinced Robert to keep him? Varys? Littlefinger?
"T'was a foul scene, not for the faint of hearts," he glances at the Messengers. "Blood seeped through the marble cracks! Tables were hacked and walls painted red; a butcher's shop. 'The Stranger came through here,' was what I thought." Pale faces listen the man speak, and Barristan hears weeping from the pulpits. He recognises their voice but keeps focus on the trial. "And I saw them there, lying on the cold ground. Ser Balon Swann, Lord Eddard Stark, both good men who died too young," Janos sniffles and wipes his eyes, but Barristan sees no tears. "Valiant men who-"
"YOU MURDERER!" someone shouts and a wooden cup hits the knight's back. Turning around, his stomach drops at seeing the young Arya Stark, her face full of rage and tears as she struggles against Stark guards. "You bloody traitor! You killed FATHER YOU-" her voice is cut off as the guards begin to scold her, but- No, I shouldn't have looked back, he gulps. There are no sympathetic eyes for him.
"We are all impacted by this tragedy," says the queen, flicking tears off her reddened eyes. "But we must not let it impede justice. Janos Slynt, please continue."
The man clears his throat before speaking. "I was there with Grand Maester Pycelle for he feared wounds on the King, but for now I will relate to you what happened to these two valiant men. Ser Balon was likely the first to die for he was the victim of a cowardly attack." Snapping his fingers, a servant comes forth with something wrapped in cloth. Janos unwraps it to reveal a familiar-looking dagger, dried blood coating its blade. "Recognise this, Ser?"
"That… That's my dagger but I did not-"
"You hear that, Lord and Ladies!? He admits that this is his own BLOODY DAGGER!" he smirks before twirling it in his hands. Shouts erupt from the pulpits, some clamouring for the honour of Ser Balon while others for Barristan's head. "You drew this blade on your fellow Brother, knave," Janos points at the knight. "A stab to the side to undo the good Ser, for he was distracted perhaps by that Valyrian harlot of-"
"ENOUGH!" Barristan jolts forward and Janos jumps back, dropping the dagger before falling on his quivering behind. Ser Meryn knocks the knight to a kneel, jabbing into his calf with a sword scabbard. "I did not kill Balon Swann and I did not kill Lord Stark! That blood is a forgery, taken from some-"
A punch to the jaw sends his vision swimming, the colourful orbs glowing brighter than before. "Do not harm the witness!" Ser Meryn shouts into his ear before pulling him to a stand. His clearing eyes see the Queen trying hard to hide her smile.
"S-See his anger!?" Janos scrambles onto his feet and grabs the dagger as sweat drips from his thin hair. "An innocent man would not have attacked me! No, that man is a knave and a craven through and through!"
"Any attempts to harm the judges or witnesses will be dealt swiftly," the Queen glares down at him. "Is that clear, Barristan Selmy?"
I never laid a finger on the man, is what he wants to say, but he hangs his head low. After everything that has happened, Barristan is tired. "…Yes, your grace."
She seems satisfied with that. "Thank you for the account, Janos Slynt. The evidence has certainly painted a grim picture. Ser Barristan Selmy, do you still plead innocent to these crimes?"
…More forgeries, he thinks. If I go forth with this, House Selmy will bear the burden; there's no justice to be found here. And I doubt they'll let me take the black without my hands and tongue cut. But if I plead guilty… He sneaks a glance at the healer, her expression full of disappointment. This march to their doom seems nothing more than a mere annoyance to her. With patience… Gritting his teeth, Barristan stands straight and lock eyes with the Queen. "I plead innocent, your grace. Their murderers are not us."
She cocks her brow. "Do you truly wish to move forward with this trial, Barristan Selmy?"
For a moment it seems as if the Queen is giving him an opportunity, but he throws such notions away. She wants to be rid of them quickly, the witnesses to her treasons. But the old knight is stubborn; he's not one to cower before an enemy, especially with so many eyes on him. "Yes. The Father's justice will see us innocent."
Whatever it takes.
Throne Room
I should have suspected his stubbornness, Cersei sneers as she sips her wine. You have that in common with Robert. But no worries, dear Selmy, I'll have you two meeting soon.
In truth, everything would have finished much quicker if the man had pleaded guilty to the accusations. She might be kind enough to spare him by sending Barristan to the Wall, with his tongue cut of course. But of course, he intends to ruin my day… Well, it has been a while since Ser Ilyn wet his blade, she smirks. But truly, another reason for her urgency is due to her newfound fears of the 'Messengers'. Monsters, she calls them, but dares not do it directly. No, they're a burgeoning problem that needs to be swiftly taken care of. Perhaps the Spider knows something of their origins… Or know the location of their bedchambers.
She sighs deeply, swishing her wine as her body sinks into the cushions. Littlefinger's scheme to besmirch the old knight's name and honour have failed. Sure, the words were excellent, but the petty Lord gave the responsibility to Janos Slynt and not the Captain of the Lannister Guards, Vylarr. She bribed the ugly man a generous amount of gold dragons for a very sub-par performance; a mummer with paints would be a better candidate. Baelish may have good ideas now and then, but a mockingbird possesses no cunning. Of course, she can only thank then her lapdog whose loyalty and skills are unquestionable. "Grand Maester Pycelle, please inform us of your findings."
"Y-Yes, your grace." The old man shuffles his feet onto the stage, his chains reflecting the dazzling colours of the orbs overhead. His young serving girl follows him with a tray with pieces of 'evidence' at hand, nervous under all this scrutiny. That girl… Cersei smirks. She'd been informed by the Spider regarding the maester's infidelities but has yet to make mention of it. Just in case.
As Pycelle begins his lengthy preamble, she wonders what role the eunuch has in all of this. She has yet to put trust in the former man for he claimed to serve the Realm; she scoffs at such a notion. "No one serves the Realm. Only fools and dreamers do," was what she said to him once. She wonders now who the broods in the Spider's nest: the wolves? The stags? Perhaps he made a nest in a bed of-
"A-And so," the maester's words interrupts her thoughts, "I must present you all this, the stitching thread of our good King Robert Baratheon." He takes a set of brown strings from the tray and raises it for everyone to see. For all Cersei knows it may as well be strands off a beggar's robe. "Sers and Lords present m-may be familiar with such a material, perhaps applied to one's gashes after a fierce battle… Or at a tourney's mishaps. When one cuts these strings too early, t-they may risk the man to become… Undone. Suffice to say, this is what I found at the King's bedchamber, cut and discarded on the bloody floor." Cersei sees a few men nod along to Pycelle's ramblings as if understanding any words he just said.
"Now, it is no secret that a b-boar has gored our King's stomach, but I dissuade you all of those foul rumours regarding his demise. After all," he raises a finger, "he was recovering steadily until this incident brought-"
Cersei coughs for the wine nearly goes down her windpipe. Stifling her hiccup with a handkerchief, all look at her with concerned faces. "I'm… I'm fine," she says with a slight hitch in her voice. "It's just… Such foul affairs to threaten my husband…" As the nobles voice their sympathies, the Queen tries her damnedest to not burst out laughing. After all, it was by Pycelle's ministrations that the oaf's health slowly festers like the rotten meat he is. Calming herself down, she takes a deep breath before regaining the position of Queen seeking justice for her sick King. Celebrations can be done later.
"O-Of course your grace. Such tragedy is, well…" The maester tugs away at an invisible knot in his beard before turning back to the accused. "N-Now, there is no doubt at Ser Barristan Selmy's involvement in the deaths of S-Ser Balon Swann and Lord Eddard Stark. However, this does not absolve Lady Eirin of her crimes for she committed a foul act against-"
"Eirin," the wench cuts him. "My name is Eirin."
Gods, no one cares about your name, Cersei scowls. She ignores the soft giggling coming from her right. Another trouble for another day, she tells herself.
"Ah, my sincere apologies, Lady Eirin," Pycelle bows his head. "I-It was not my intention to stain such a beautiful, exotic name. May I ask, where does one acquire it?"
"Japan," says the woman, taking a few seconds before adding: "Lunar Kingdom."
"Lunar… Ah, I see, I see," the man strokes his beard. In her half-drunk mind, Cersei sees a white cat in place of the maester's flowing whiskers. "Tell me then, w-which cardinal direction may I find this 'Japan'?"
"In the Far East, at the edge of the ocean."
"Ocean you say…"
"Pycelle, may I ask-"
A single finger silences the disgraced Kingsguard. With sharp eyes, the maester studies her up and down, lingering on certain parts just like Robert. Just the thought of his name makes her want to vomit. "Interesting…"
"Well?" asks her son Joffrey, fingers and heels tapping the Iron Throne. "What do you accuse her of?"
"Well, many things, your grace," Pycelle's whiskers form a tight smile as he slowly straightens his back. "For one, I fear you're not telling me the truth, Lady Eirin. That is certainly the case, yes."
The woman cocks her brow. "I speak no lies."
"And that is another lie," he chuckles. "Words of wisdom from your elder, young lady: never lie to someone wiser than you, more learned than you, more experienced than you," he warns with such sharpness the man looks a decade younger. "Here is why I know you lie, Lady Eirin. You say the name of 'Japan', of a 'Lunar Kingdom' in the Far East. Well," he swells with pride, "as Grand Maester in service of the Realm, I know maps as a raven knows flying. I can recite to you the necropolises of Yi-Ti, the royal families of the Summer Islands, and many more if one wills it. Yet from the valleys of the Shadowlands to the well-trodden stones of the Free Cities, I never once heard a mention of 'Japan' nor 'Lunar Kingdom'. Where do they lie in relation to the Bones, Lady Eirin? East? South? North? Beneath its sunless seas?"
"Maybe your maps are inadequate," she retorts. "I've seen the ports; your ships are pathetic, unfit to sail the open oceans let alone travel to my once home."
"They can't even fly," Cersei hears their snickering.
"Maybe," the maester nods, his chains clattering as one. "Maybe the maps are inadequate. Maybe, yes. Maybe you did come from beyond the Grey Wastes, from beyond the jungles of Ulthos and the unknown seas. Maybe you did hail from this unknown seashore where East becomes West and where the sun rises from the Sunset Sea. However," he waves his hand, "that is all pure conjecture. No, there are far simpler explanations for this. Ahem, Tana," he turns to his serving girl, back hunched again. "C-Care to describe me the Lady's appearance?"
"Yes, Grand Maester. Um…" It takes her a second to form her words. "She's tall, yes, taller than the knave. She has silver-"
"Platinum," Pycelle corrects her.
"Y-Yes, platinum hair. Grey eyes and a… A beautiful face…"
"No need for the flattery," he shakes his head before dismissing her.
"Why curious of my appearance?" the woman asks.
"Well, as w-we all know, people of different lands carry with them different bodies and looks. You claim to be from the Furthest East yet I see no trace of the stout Ibbeneese from you. Nor can I see the d-dark skins of the Dothrakii and the Hyrkoon Patrimony. No, your appearance is quite reminiscent of a more… Familiar people."
Finally, Cersei stifles her need for a groan before sitting up. "What do you make of this, Grand Maester?" Of course, she already decided on the answer.
The old man tuts before retreating from the wench. "I f-fear the eunuch is right, your grace. His warnings, we should have followed them…"
"What is it!?" Joffrey shouts, leaning out of the throne.
"The platinum hair, the face, the eyes… Y-Your grace, this is no mere incident. T-This woman is a Targaryen assassin sent from across the Narrow Sea to kill the King!" he declares to the horror of everyone present. Though Pycelle suggested the idea, it was her who decided to blame the Targaryens. After all, what are they going to do against these accusations? Swim their horses across the Narrow Sea? Who's here to defend their-
"What's a Targaryen?"
…
"Pardon?"
"What's a Targaryen?" the blonde girl repeats her question, much to everyone's silent bewilderment. Cersei blinks once, twice, three times to make sure she just heard that correctly. In the silence, she can hear the howling winds outside the Red Keep.
"Dunno, but it sounds cool though!" the blue once cackles.
"I know~! It sounds sharp, just like my teeth."
…
Were they dragged out from under some mud!? No, even the dimmest stableboy would know of the dragons… The Fat One rushes over, his jowls jiggling as he breathlessly reaches their sides and whispers something into their ears. Where have I seen this- Ah! She remembers now, back when Myrcella was but a toddler swaddled in smallclothes. The innocence, the fact they know nothing of this world and laws… When they say the Maiden is the embodiment of purity and innocence, does that mean not knowing the sufferings of the world? No, but then why would that brat… All this thinking hazes her mind; she takes another sip of wine and asks her servant to refill it.
…
"Oh, so it's like that?"
"Yes, your Holiness."
"So they're the previous-"
"Yes."
"And the ones across the-"
"Yes."
"And this one is-"
"Correct, your Holiness."
The blue one nods her head. "Alright, I get it. Leave us for now," she waves him away before smirking. "Heh, at least that grub can be useful at times."
"Hey, don't be mean to Mister Fatty," the blonde girl pouts. "He can be fun to chase around!"
"Heheh, yeah, there's that too. Ah, right!" The girl grabs their attention by clapping her gauntlets, their sounds no different to thunder. "We've received the needed information regarding the Targaryens; very interesting history for a bunch of bugs. Carry on with the trial if you will."
"Is she cool for being an assassin?"
"Oh, very cool…" The two continue talking in low tones without a care in the world.
…
Cersei looks at the maester; the old man returns to his position, righting his beard. "Ah, f-for that reason you tried to assassinate the King. Remove his medicine and alter his health... Despicable."
"How many times do I have to repeat myself that I'm not- Geh! You two!" the wench shouts at the Messengers. "I need your help!"
Ser Meryn approaches with a sword at the ready. "No shouting at the-"
"Tell this man I'm not a spy," she continues, ignoring the Kingsguard's command. "Tell them I'm a doctor!"
"It's cool that you're a spy," the blonde girl answers with a giggle. "You should continue being one, Miss Eirin!"
The woman clicks her tongue before giving up. Much to Cersei's relief, the two doesn't declare the woman innocent; that would have ruined everything. "A Targaryen assassin?" she asks the maester a prepared question, feigning a fearful expression. "What is her connection then with Ser Barristan Selmy?"
Pycelle tilts his head. "W-Well, your grace, Lord Varys' insight might be able to answer that question."
"That is certainly true, Grand Maester," the eunuch bows his head. "This one is an interesting matter, I must confess. During small council meetings, should anyone mention plans to be rid of Daenerys or Viserys Targaryen Ser Barristan Selmy would readily voice his disapproval. Seems like he's not ready to rid the world of the last dragonlords," he concludes. Cersei grins at seeing the growing anger in the nobles. None of them will defend these two.
Barristan is wide-eyed at the account. "T-That is-"
"Untrue, Ser?" Littlefinger smirks. "You know, I was present as well when King Robert suggested the idea. Your counsel went well against the King's will, and oftentimes made him so mad he'd storm off without getting anything done in the small council! If you meant to delay your beloved Targaryen's deaths, well," he shrugs, "it's effective, I shall not lie."
"Effective... And despicable," Pycelle quivers, the bejewelled chain links rattling against his chest. "They're the children of Aerys, the M-Mad King. His blood runs through their veins, Sers and Lords. We will not know w-when the madness emerges forth, like a dragon that burns babes and their mothers. The Targaryen words, 'Fire and Blood', are ill omens. A-A warning to us all."
"Even Lord Stark refused the King's plans to kill Daenerys Targaryen," the old knight spits, leaving a red mark on the floor. "All were witness to those words for he and I share similar ideas about killing a helpless child. And as per the King's last words, Robert planned to stop sending threats to dispatch of the girl..."
Doesn't matter, she smiles to herself. She was given the King's last will by Vylarr, still sealed by the stamp of the Lord Hand. Of course, she reads its content before throwing it into her brazier. The conspiracy of my children's parentage... Gone like the ashes! Ah, nothing can get better than this.
But she stand corrected.
As she's about to give a final verdict, a cup hits Barristan's head. "Dragonspawn!" someone shouts. Though the first assailant is unknown, the next one wears the colours of House Harte. He throws his cup at the wench, shouting "Death to the Targaryens!" Soon, more objects fly through the air and the sounds of thunder meld into the shouts.
"Death to the Mad King!"
"Death to dragonspawn!"
The nobles' anger grows into such a clamour that Ser Boros Blount readies himself to stop them, but Cersei raises her hand. "Let them be," she grins. "It's what's needed to be done."
"…Aye, your grace."
Cersei watches the chaos with wine in her hands. All manners of cups, plates, brooches, and even a few shoes cross the pulpits to meet the supposed accuser. Some of the nobles are cheering others on, no doubt this atmosphere is bringing out all the joy from within them. And many throw the objects with such ferocity that Ser Meryn has to close his visors and retreat with the Grand Maester. A few wine droplets hit her neck as a golden cup hits the knight square on the head. "Serves you right, TRAITORS!" her lovely son cackles from atop the Iron Throne. Does it matter if the two accused whisper to each other in the chaos? No, of course not!
Redness seeps through the knight's white hair. Should I stop this? she wonders.
"Death to Viserys!"
"Death to Daenerys!"
"Death to the whore!"
No, I should wait a little more. After all, the Messengers are also pleased with this, she thinks after seeing the two girls cheer on the violent nobles. For the embodiment of innocence, they enjoy conflict and violence far too much.
As the barrage slows to a trickle, Cersei motions for the Gold and red cloaks to step in. Valuables are picked up, shoes are put to the side, and nobles are heavily reprimanded in their conduct. She looks down at the two, so tiny from atop her wooden throne. The wench has a cut on her forehead while the knight's hair is slowly turning red. The Queen smiles at her work. "We will give our final verdict once my guards return. Do you have any last statements?"
"I'm innocent," the woman repeats, though much more interesting is the old Knight's face. His looks turn and swim, looking here and there before... Relaxing. Accepting his fate? This will make it much easier. Shame you didn't do it much earlier, Ser Barristan, else you would have survived.
The knight steps forward, standing at the centre of the throne room. Taking a deep breath, he gives the proclamation: "We demand a trial by combat."