Histories Written in Blood

Cersei Lannister paced the floor within the Red Keep. The Dragon Queen was outside the city gates. "The silver-haired cunt," Cersei thought to herself.

"Lanna," she said, calling for her handmaiden.

Her handmaiden was a young thing. She was slight, and pale, with closely cropped dark hair, and grey eyes.

"Yes, your grace?" She replied.

"Fetch Qyburn." Cersei's hands were clasped over her stomach. She was heavily pregnant, and her head continued to ache daily, so that she could hardly concentrate on anything. Lately, she also had sharp pains in her abdomen and a dull ache in her lower back that troubled her. She sat down on her bed, surrounded by pillows, to await Qyburn. Qyburn had been a great help to her. He could do miraculous things. This pregnancy had not gone as smoothly as her others, and she had no Jaime to comfort her. It felt as if she was tempting fate. When she closed her eyes at night, she saw the dwarf, laughing at her. He had cursed her. Maybe she was carrying a foul, misshapen monster like him, like the creature that killed her mother. The thought made her want to laugh. It would be an irony not lost on her. The foul creature haunted her, his shame and perversion hung over her head like a curse. "A day will come when you think yourself safe and happy, and suddenly your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth, and you'll know the debt is paid." She remembered his threats well. Was her joy to turn to ashes in her mouth? Was she carrying her death in her belly? She turned these questions over and over in her mind. She pressed her fingers into her temples, massaging in circles, trying to ease the tension and pain in her head.

Once, when she had been young, and stupid, she had been in love with Rhaegar Targaryen. Who wasn't in love with him? Rhaegar was beautiful. She had sought out a woods witch to seek her future. She wanted to know if she would marry Rhaegar and be Queen. The witch, Maggy had been an ugly thing, squat, and toothless with a face like a frog. She had gone to a small hut in the middle of the forest and met the toothless, old crone. She practiced blood magic. She would tell your fortune for a drop of blood. Cersei remembered the gnarled hands of the witch, and how they felt soft, wet and cold, as she grabbed Cersei's finger. Her fingertip was pooling with blood and the crone stuck it into her wet, toothless mouth, and tasted her blood. She tasted one drop of blood and told Cersei her future. She had asked the witch if she would marry the King. Rhaegar was to be King, and she hoped upon hopes to be his Queen, and rule by his side. The woman had no good news to tell. She told the young lioness that she and the King would have children, but the number was puzzling. The maegi had said in her croaky old voice that the children would number "Six-and-ten for him, and three for you." This sounded like madness. She foretold the deaths of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. Three golden lions-three golden haired beauties, all taken from her before their times. "Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds." She had three children. Three. None survived to adulthood. Now she was here, pregnant again, and every minute of this pregnancy was torture. "Six-and-ten for him, and three for you." Cersei kept repeating in her mind. She lay back on the bed, her eyes watching the bed canopy, and her mind trying desperately to block out the pain. The pain in her back was becoming unbearable. "Three for you," She kept repeating in her head. "Three for you." What of the fourth?

She could hear footsteps approaching the door of her chambers. Four Lannister guardsmen with glimmering gilded lion crests on their helms entered her room. Behind them, a man in Maester's robes, but wearing no chain, Qyburn. He could do so much more than that pervert Grand Maester Pycelle. Cersei couldn't believe that she had ever let that lecher touch her. Even now Cersei could remember Pycelle's trembling hands slowly touching her thighs, examining her, his eyes betraying more interest than they should in her flesh. He always smelled of pee, and he was too familiar. All of her handmaidens had been afraid of him.

"Your grace," Qyburn stepped forward. His hair was more silver than white, and peppered with hints of black. His eyes were shining and blue, and he had the air of a younger man. Though he was thin, and frail, he had a face that reminded you of a kindly uncle. She sensed concern in his eyes as he examined her. She looked towards the far corner of the room, her eyes becoming heavy and she watched the backs of the four guardsmen as their lion crested helms cast shadows on the wall in the torchlight. She had seen her future in a drop of blood, and she meant to defy it. Qyburn's voice brought her out of her reveries. Beneath her hand she felt the babe within her moving. Maybe the babe sensed her distress. She wanted to soothe him or her. She felt it was a him. But you could never be sure. She rubbed her swollen belly, and she felt Qyburn's eyes on her.

"You must rest, your grace. You must." He turned to her handmaidens. "Bring me some dreamwine. Bring me some hot water, and lemon. Be quick about it. Your grace needs her rest."

Cersei smiled, as she felt her eyelids become heavy. Maybe she was tired. Maybe the Dragon Cunt would come in here and find her, already dead. What did it matter? Everything was turning to ashes anyway.

"Your grace," she could hear Qyburn saying. But her eyes were too heavy now, and it sounded like he was far away.