A/N- Hello all! New chapter!
A lot of people had requested a Jaime chapter after the one just passed, however I had already started this one and like where it was going and so is stuck with it.
Any review no matter how small always makes my day.
I hope you all enjoy….
The Mother of Madness
Cersei
The world had become a curious place to Cersei Lannister.
A place wherein monstrous little dwarfs could vanish into thin air.
A place where a doe-eyed little bitch could marry a king and wear a crown.
A place where an auburn-haired maiden could dispel into the wind without a trace.
A place where charlatans dined with sovereigns and whores danced with Lords.
A place where inane senseless men tried failing to rule a Kingdom, whilst the greatest man to have ever lived had been snuffed out through a mere quarrel through the groin.
Such was the world at present, that Cersei Lannister felt all the more certain that it was she who would be the one to deliver Westeros from the darkness of war, and into the light of a golden age.
As the realm lumbered through the sludge of misfortune, evaded by the shadows of war, and blood gushed from the body of the Kingdom, the Queen Regent was all that remained steadfast.
I am Tywin Lannister's daughter. A daughter of the Rock. A lioness with a golden mane, and roar in my throat.
As she sat before the mirror of her vanity, twizzling the lengthy strands of her plaited her hair, she thought of those of whom had failed her.
Her uncle Kevan had of late been the most recent to disappoint. She had wanted him to assign him Hand, to give him a taste of the power that his noble brothers overbearing shadow had always denied him. However, his response had not been the show of gratitude that she had anticipated. In fact, he'd had the audacity to dare ask her to abdicate from her regency, in compromise to him becoming Hand.
Like he was the one doing me a kindness.
If he'd had his way, she would've been sent back to Lannisport, to marry some noble Lord, and live out her days as the Lady of Casterly Rock, denied her of her rightful place by her son's side.
She'd hoped that he'd eventually he'd see clarity, fall to his knees in repentance, renounce his declaration and take up the place of Hand. Sadly, such an admission had not resounded upon her merciful ears, and her uncle Kevan had cantered away into the Western sunset. Stupid old fool.
I don't need him, I don't need any of them.
Her brother Jaime, had likewise forsaken her. No longer was he a symbol of vibrancy in a world of monotony, blessed with dynamic prowess, and streaked with a magnificent stroke of arrogance. He was a changed man; softer, weaker; irritatingly pliable. The loss of his sword hand had seemingly unmanned him.
Their love dwindled much like a dying flame. They had spent the majority of their lives bickering between one another, which was only to be expected of two people both so alike in aspect and nature. Past disputes had always been resolved with words of affection, or a night together, spent wrapped in an entanglement of limbs.
Though in recent days apologies were scarce come by, and admissions of guilt remained amiss. The only courtesy they paid one another was by repression. Both too proud and arrogant to admit fault.
He had of late developed a peculiar, and immensely irritating habit of contending against anything she said or did. Whatever she liked, he didn't, when she said something was right, he'd say it was wrong. If she said something was white, he'd tell her it was black.
Cersei deduced that it was the monstrosity who'd delivered him back to the capital that had spoiled him. She'd made him soft, lenient, and utterly intolerant of any injustice. For some reason, she'd caused the voice of his conscience to grow louder within his mind, and as consequence he now he felt every need to ram such ethics down Cersei's ear.
Despite the failings of her uncle and brother, Cersei deemed that the greatest failing of them all, was the way in which she had been cursed as a woman.
The inequities of her sex meant that she'd had to suffering years of Roberts mauling's, his unsightly corpulenceand his arbitrary worth. She'd endure three ventures into the childbed and -. She'd watched on as her father had reared Jaime for greatness whilst she had been left to sew shirts.
She'd done her waiting, years of it. And her years of patience and perseverance, with a few ploys along the way, had led her to the Iron Throne, to act as regent and vigil over the Kingdom, whilst molding her son in a King that would stand the test of time, and prosper where those afore had fallen.
Look at me now father, she thought her eyes fixated upon her own reflection, I am your heir. I shall shine the light of your legacy and make it burn bright for an eternity. I shall rid Westeros of usurpers, cleanse the Kingdom of impunity and trample the Tyrells into the ground. I'll relieve my son of that cunning bitch that hangs off his arm. And I shall make my him the greatest King to grace the Iron Throne.
Although Tommen was meek and mild, she was confident that she would be able to make him in the great ruler that her father had assured her he would be. Jaime frequently told her to leave him alone, and let nature take its course. Look at Rhaegar Targaryen, he'd said, he'd read books like a maester and played his silver harp like a maiden, and then one day he picked up a sword and a warrior was born. All was true, except Rhaegar had ever so nobly died at the trident.
Her son would never grow up to be so feeble as to sacrifice his Kingdom for a Lady's love.
Her son adored his new bride like she was the embodiment of the maiden, except Cersei could see straight through her façade of deception. Behind her hazel eyes veiled with innocence, plots and conspiracies float in the ocean of her conniving mind; as for one, Cersei was almost certain that Maid Margaery was in fact no maid at all. It seemed preposterous that a girl married thrice, with such a suggestive aura, still had her maidenhead intact.
It was nearing on a moon-turn since they'd had plighted their troth to one another before Gods and Men, and since that day, Maggy the Frog's voice had grown louder in her mind.
Whenever she closed her eyes at night, behind her eyelids she could still see Maggy's yellow crusty eyes glowering at her, whilst her green jowls juddered and her toothless mouth told her of the fortunes she'd so desperately wanted to know. Cersei regretted few things in life, visiting Maggy the Frog that fateful night was the upmost one.
Three questions she'd asked, and three answers she'd been told.
Cersei had asked if she would marry to the prince, but had indeed married a King, just like Maggy had prophesied. Within that same fortune, she'd told her that she'd have three children, and her husband would have six and ten. The latter had perplexed her in her youth, for a time making her believe that Maggy the Frog was had merely been a charlatan.
However, as time progressed, and Robert's infidelity had caused bastards to sprout up like weeds all over Flea Bottom, the prophesies began to appear all the more feasible.
I will be Queen, though? Her young intemperate self-had asked, eager for power and desperate for the world's fortunes to be placed in her palm. Maggy's response still echoed within the chambers of her mind as clear as the day that they had spoken; Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear. Her crowing, cackling curse still made Cersei shudder like her bones had turned to splints of ice.
Cersei often wondered whether Maggy the Frog had died in her rotten little hut in the woodlands, and she had been the unlucky soul that Maggy intended to haunt for all eternity.
With one drop of blood she'd sold her future and bought herself a life of which she spent her days awaiting the impending.
Gold shall be their crowns and gold shall be their shrouds.
As burdensome as the future was, it gave her an advantage in that she could manipulate and contort the present to veer herself away from the dismal providence that would have otherwise consumed her, lest she had not known.
Knowledge was power, and Cersei Lannister had glimpsed at the future. She'd been given the chance to protect her children, to save them from evil and to preserve herself from the avarice of a smirking little whore.
Her volanquar would one day return from out of the shadows, and Cersei Lannister would be ready.
Cersei glared back at herself in the mirror. I am the Queen, she affirmed, as she took a sip of wine. I am the light of the West. Her long golden mane cascaded down her front in twizzles of spun gold, whilst plaits and braids sat atop her head, in ripples of molten gilt.
She'd donned a gown of black, which shimmered with an iridescent silver in the light, flecked with daubs of gold and the bell sleeves inlayed with slate grey silk. The upper hem encircled her shoulders, whilst a weighty necklace of adjoining burnt gold ovals lay upon her chest. She breathed deeply, taking a sip of her wine, and then another, emptying the cup.
"Your Grace" a voice spoke from behind her. "The small council awaits."
Cersei twisted her posture within the mirror so to look upon he who had spoken.
Qyburn stood yonder beneath the arch way. His blacken garbs drowning his slight frame.
"The small council awaits." He informed.
"Very well." Cersei acknowledged. She turned to face him, yet made no attempt to ascend. "Come sit a moment." She gestured for him to sit upon the nearby velvet pew.
"What whispers have fallen upon your ears?" she asked, as he took his place beside her, whilst she traced her finger around the rim of her golden chalice.
"Very little your great Grace. Lips are seemingly hushed at present."
"Nothing of our little Queen?"
"Nothing other than I have heard she has given her assent to attend the gathering of the Lady Ezralaya's."
"She is no Lady." Cersei reproached.
"Forgive me." He spoke, regretful of his inelegant blunder. "Indeed, she is not. Nonetheless, Queen Margaery appears very fond of her."
"Of course she is. Maid Margaery is fond of everything from flowers and butterflies down to the rats of Flea Bottom." Qyburn silence concurred. "What is the purpose of the gathering?" she questioned, feeling anger building within her. The mere of their union was incredibly unsettling for her inner sense of harmony. She reached forward and refilled her cup with wine, emptying the flagon.
"It's one her Ladies name days, though I could tell you which one. They are all of the same."
"Is anyone permitted to attend?" Cersei queried.
"It's in an open invitation." Qyburn answered assuredly.
"Are you going?" Cersei questioned, in a way that sublimely disclosed her desired answer.
"Does you Grace want me to?" Qyburn asked, "I fear I may…stand out a little."
"I will send two of my maids." Cersei resolved, she herself not willing to stoop so low as to attend. "I think it shall be worthwhile. The more we can monitor this foreign stranger and the conduct of our sweet Margaery, the better."
"I agree." Qyburn spoke. "I aim only to please your Grace."
ooo
Eventually, Cersei honoured the small council with her presence. The usual's were in attendance; Pycelle sat to left of the head chair, absent of her bearing. Lord Baelish sat to the left of him, followed by Mace Tyrell.
Upon entering, she sauntered down the length of the table, advancing to her place of eminence, Qyburn trailing behind.
"Qyburn shall be joining us on the small council meeting." Cersei informed, gesturing for him to take the place beside her. No one dared question the decision. Yet the continued silence and awkward shift in their postures silently implied traces of disapproval.
"Where is my brother?" Cersei asked, upon sitting herself.
Pycelle's hoary croaks of ancient timbres resounded first; "He came your Grace, but swiftly left once learning that you had not yet arrived." Cersei rolled her eyes in annoyance. Jaime had always been petulant, even as a boy, too impatient and rash to linger any longer than his mind's wilful capacity.
"It's good to have you back Lord Baelish." Cersei spoke. He was the only man within the room that Cersei had any diplomatic faith in. He had no need to scour through papers, for he was a man of which was confident in his tellings.
"Thank you, your grace." He replied in answer, dipping his head in thanks.
"What news of the North do you bring?" she questioned.
"Tales of strife and bloodshed. Stannis Baratheon has amassed a vast fully equip army, blandished by the Iron Bank – It seems as though he is planning to remove the Bolton's from Winterfell. The odds are somewhat more equal than they were before."
"Troubling indeed." Mace Tyrell interposed, utterly redundant. "Could they win?"
"I would not feel confident betting on either. Stannis is an accomplished commander. His guidance and guile during the siege of Storm's End established him as a true military leader. And Roose Bolton, although cold and cunning, does not possess the siege experience nor the tactility that Stannis."
"Well something must be done." Cersei affirmed. "Winterfell would give him a strong base, of which his men would come to grow in their strength. They come to be desirous to plunder vaster castles."
"Of course. As I'm sure you know, I am now Protector of the Vale upon the death of my late wife."
"Ah yes – our deepest commiserations. How fortunate you are to be acquiring so much in the face of loss." Her sardonicism was manifest.
Baelish paid little acknowledge to the condolences. "The Knights of the Vale are some of the best fighters in Westeros, trained to battle in the ice and snow. I'm sure it would be in the best interest of the crown if I were to pledge my men to the cause."
"And what would you want in return?" Pycelle croaked, quick to call out falsity, knowing that no good gesture came without a price.
"I will happy to discuss my reward upon the destruction of Stannis Baratheon."
"Very well." Cersei acquiesced before any more could be said upon the matter. "You must leave for the Vale immediately. Let us not tarry your haste. Ready your men, fight for the crown, and your reward shall be generous."
Baelish took to his feet, ascending into his act of promise.
"You have word." Meaning that I have very little, Cersei thought.
"Go with good stead my Lord." She spoke. To which he turned on his heal and left, leaving her behind in a room full of inadequacy. The only except being Qyburn, a man of little standing, no name or birth right, yet he held her trust more than many.
Silence emerged in display of their feeble inadequacy.
"Well?" She snapped. Her mind at present had not the durability nor competence to endure their customary inanity. Her curt tone knocked the men out of their condition of day dreaming, morphing them back into cognizance.
Their fretful fingers scampered through the pages of parchment laying before them, which soon became strune across the table as their rifled through the sheets to find the areas of importance, and topics of concern.
It was times like these in which Cersei missed her Uncles presence. He was a well organised man, with structured thoughts, who would always be equipped and ready for council meetings. Ready to speak of the important and sidestep the insignificant.
"Urm – well Dorne have written." Mace Tyrell began, flapping around a pieced of curled parchment in the air. "They have requested the head of Ser Gregor Clegane, in preparation for the death of Lord Oberyn.
"I cannot see that being a problem." Cersei reasoned. It seemed a healthy compromise to keep the Dornish at bay. "Will that be possible?" she asked turn to Qyburn who was dealing with the remains down in the black cells.
"I'm not sure it will your Grace." He began. "The poison of which lay upon the spear of Prince Oberyn, has had effects upon the decomposition of the body in ways that I have never quite seen before. I'm trying to stop the spread of venom, seen as the silent sisters had not the stomach for it. As such, I'm not sure how much shall remain upon competition of the poisons work."
"I say we should just bury that monstrosity and be done with it." Mace Tyrell affirmed, thumping his fist half-heartily upon the table, as though to add some sense vindication, of which Cersei utterly disregarded.
She could still remember the way in which the mountain had taken an ashen spear to the chest, and had made the world quake as he'd hit the ground beneath.
"The Dornish will just have to wait then." She resolved. "What's next?" she spoke, swiftly pushing the former aside.
Pycelle's age withered hands began to rummage through the layers and layers of parchments, groping at seals and timeworn documents.
"Here we go." he croaked. Holding up a roll of unfurling parchment, tied together by a red ribbon. "Our guest, Ezralaya Cosalario has made a petition to council, requesting permission to build a number of constructions within Flea Bottom, including; Bath houses, orphanages and homes for the elderly."
Cersei stared on in bafflement. Unsure whether to laugh in hilarity or utter despair.
"Tell me Pycelle…." His eyes looked upon her like a docile dog. "At what point did we start taking charity from whores?" She couldn't resist the urge to laugh.
"Your Grace with all due respect, I believe we should take her up on her kind offer." Mace Tyrell began, "As Master of coin, I don't think that we cannot afford to decline generosity. The crowns coin is solely directed at the war effort, and we cannot provide for the destitute. Especially due to the debt that is owed to the Iron Back." He took a moment to pause. "This girl, is offering the chance of job opportunities, to pay the workers out of her own pocket so that they can provide for themselves without relying on the Crowns finances. I don't think we can afford, both in currency and in morality to refuse her charity." Cersei listen attentively, pondering methodically over her options.
She knew that outright discrediting the girl, would only undermine herself, and yet she just could not bring herself to wholly would make it seem like she approved of her presence within her Kingdom.
Cersei had never wanted to invite her to Court, but her Uncle Kevan had swayed the council enabling the vote to fall in his favour He had sent the summons on behalf of the King a few days later, as he remained steadfast in the belief that through hospitality and cordiality, she would bestow enough gold onto the Crown to settle the debt owed to the Iron Bank of Braavos. He had assured his niece, it'd only be for a short while, that she'd lift the spirits of the Red Keep and be good for morale.
And yet regardless of her young years and outward demeanour, there was something about the girl from across the water did not sit right with Cersei, for she had aura about her that seemed to captive any of whom looking upon her. She was dangerous, but Cersei was unable to figure out why. Likewise, the way in which she continuously dallied about with Jaime, did her no favours in Cersei eyes.
It had been nigh on a month since the girl had berthed upon the Black Water, and not so much as mention or an attempt to contribute such a significant donation had taken place. And Cersei doubted that it ever would.
I won't take charity from a whore; my father would be quaking in his grave. I'll find another way to dissolve the debt.
Beauty could be deceptive, and the fickle often confused the beautiful with the righteous, believing that beauty was a connotation of godliness, and estimating that association with the beautiful was advantageous to their own virtue.
Though dissoluteness could manifest in many forms.
I want her gone. And I want her gone soon, as well as those lowly whores that flock around her.
She was trying to worm her way a little deeper, digging down and engraining herself into the literal soil of Westeros to make her mark upon the Capital. Trying to be remembered as a saviour. Though Cersei would ensure that the world would remember her for what she really was.
An outright no to her councillors seemed unwise, she could not be seen as a Queen who denied her subjects the chance of absolution. "Pass me the parchment." She ordered and Pycelle obliged.
Cersei stared at the slanted writing, in perfect straight lines which stretched across the page. Her eyes narrowed, following the words and comprehending their meaning. Cersei looked up, and saw their waiting eyes, anticipating direction.
"For such a colossal task, there is very little information." The men seemed to agree, as short nods were shared between them. "And these words are all very well and good in writing, however, they must be carried out, and there is no explanation of how she is going to do this, nor how she will pay the men. If all goes array chaos will ensue." Her councillors seemed to take heed as their faces saddened, due to the prospect of kindness becoming such a complicated concept.
"What do you propose?" Mace Tyrell asked.
"I propose that we send her a summons and make her appear before council, in which she can explain herself and her intentions." A little discomfort shall hopefully weaken her sprightly spirit.
"Is that really necessary though?" He questioned in answer. "She is known as the saviour of the Free cities, she knows how to eradicate the indigent areas."
Saviour? Cersei derided internally, she's a strumpet who just so happens to have made a fortune from her solicitations.
Her wealth made her all the more dangerous. She was the richest woman, and by far richer than many of the great Lords in the Kingdom. Cersei could expel her from the Red Keep at her choosing, however the girl would leave no less wealthy than when she came, and her uncle had made the valid point that if her wealth was given to the adversary houses, then their chances of triumphing would be greatly increased.
That was not something Cersei was willing to risk. Her son's prerogative was of the upmost importance. The purloining of gold and the demises of the whole of the realm would all happen in good time.
"The Eastern Free Cities are not engulfed by war as we are. It is a colossal task to eradicate Flea Bottom, one of which a girl of six and ten seems unfit to accomplish. I will not have my city destroyed through a false act of benevolence."
"A false act you Grace?" Pycelle was like as a dog to a scent.
Cersei partly brushed his comment aside, but made sure to use it in a way that would enrich her influence upon the intuitions of her councillors; "I know nothing of this girl, other than her notorious name and past, and I cannot fathom why someone would take such an immense interest in a land that's not their own. I know she claims to be born in Westeros, but it is evident that Volantis is her true home. I shall not offer up Kings Landing for her to do what she will as she pleases. I cannot permit her until I am sure that her actions are truly for the best, and can be carried out with the prospect of succeeding." The Lords sat before glared back, void of expression.
"My Lord's I ask you to appeal to your conscience, to your gods, to your instincts, and ask whether we can truly trust this girl from across the water?" Doubt was emerging upon their faces, their eyes now brimming with suspicion. Cersei could feel her cheeks pinching with the urge to smile; she'd manipulated them into the ideal condition of thought; so that they mistrusted all that they originally thought they knew. "Well?" she prompted, as their beguiled reserve prolonged.
Qyburn loyally came to her aid; dulcet tones resonated; "It would do no harm for her to appear before the council."
"Indeed." Pycelle continued. "It is better to be safe than sorry. Few in this world can be trusted, I fear the Whore of the Realm is not one of them." Pycelle was ever the sycophant, though for once he was articulating what she wanted her other councillors to accept as true.
"Indeed. . I believe, that you have all been deceived by triviality. Let not her outward poise distort your wise perceptions." Flattery always appealed to idle, lack-lustre men, and if a few hollow compliments could sculpt their minds into the same dubious state as her own, then it would be worth it. The sooner her councillors and the rest of the wider world saw the Whore of the Realm, for the conniving little bitch that Cersei knew her to be, then the sooner she'd be trodden down into the cesspits of slums. Where she belongs.
ooo
As the Small Council meeting came to conclusion, Cersei left with the feeling of accomplishment.
After a short walk through the maze of beige marble corridors, interwoven by gold veined pillars and out down the serpentine steps, she appeared before the White Sword Tower.
She headed on into the entrance; "Wait here." She ordered her guards, leaving them in the antechamber of the Tower whilst she headed up the spiralled stairs. Ascending up to the third floor.
She found her brother sat in the round room, filling in documents as best he could with his ungainly left hand, leaving behind scribbles and smudges of ink. He looked up when the door opened, but swiftly looked away when he saw it was she who had entered.
"You were supposed to be at the small council meeting." She spoke to his indifferent comportment, broaching into the expanse of the room then meandering forward to brace her weight upon the back of a chair.
He looked up, with undaunted eyes. "So were you."
"I was." She affirmed in diluted smugness.
"I arrived. You were not there. And so I left." He answered pointedly, challenging her complacency.
"Could you not have waited?" Cersei countered, attempting to straight her posture as though to emit a sense of superiority. However Jaime was unconscious to that of supremacy; any man who killed a King would quickly realise that a parade of power was merely a façade.
"I did. I waited far longer than necessary. If you can't be there on time then I don't see why I should be there at all. You can say you're acting Regent until you're blue in the face but utlimatly it means very little. We all have duties to attend to, and cannot spend out days waiting around to be blessed with your dignity." Jaime's counters always had a way of cutting her short.
The rage he cause within her dominated her thoughts, and left her with minimal concentration to refute his remarks. But she'd been blessed with a sharp tongue, and the capacity to quarrel, which ensured that he'd never know how much his simple words had the ability to hurt her.
"I am the Queen." she answered, she answered matter-of-factly, throwing her hand onto her hip. Jaime stared back like she'd told a bad joke, like he could not, for the life of him comprehended the logics of her justification.
"You're the Queen mother." He spoke, as though it was a detriment; "And it's about time the King began attending the meetings, so that he can't learn what it is to be a ruler." The fury within her was scorching her heart and boiling the contents of her stomach. He enraged her, in a way that could only be described as a corporal thrill of impassioned odium, which stimulated every fibre upon her body. She loathed him and adored him all at once. Jaime had always been her weakness, her beautiful flaw. She couldn't bear to live with, but more so, couldn't bear to live without him.
At one time, they had been each other's everything, they'd come it the world together and from then on, the bond they shared had for a long time been all they'd ever known. Except societal principles and expedient betrothals played a part in their world of privilege, in which powerful lords had pried them apart from one another, in order for them to both fulfil their assigned providence; Cersei to assume the role of Robert's doting wife, and Jaime, to play the part of heir to Casterly Rock – both of which they had done well to utterly thwart.
"The King is busy." Cersei answered through gritted teeth, her head titled menacingly to the side, trying to source any trace of apprehension upon him. But none was there to be found.
Jaime answered with a confidence, a brazenness, which no one else dared speak to her with; "Knocking cans off a podium upon his horse in the tilt yard shall not help him become a King."
"He's a child!" Cersei protested, feeling a mother's defiance swell up within her.
"He's not and you can't keep treating him like a child. Our father was nineteen years old when he destroyed Castamere, and Tarbeck Hall alike. That's only four years difference, and still you force the boy to eat sweet-beets against his will." Jaime spoke the words as though laughter was mottled thinly between the words, and any who listened hard enough would be able to hear his mocking chortles engendered at her expense.
He shall not take mirth in my tribulations. I am not a woman to be disdained.
Venom was collecting in her mouth, making her tongue rampant with caustic ripostes.
"Perhaps you'll decide to attend the next Small Council meeting, seen as your little whore shall be there." This time, his eyes locked upon hers. Tapering in search of pretence. But Cersei held his glare, allowing a sly smile to spread across her face. She'd sparked a nerve in him. He was no longer so apathetic. But the notion that the whore caused him more interest, than to attend her at council, stirred an unsettling concoction within her perception.
"What do you mean?" he looked confused but too cautious to wholly submit under the state of bafflement.
"Because we have summoned her." Jaime rose up in a torrent of supressed anger. The chair legs squawked in agony as his body thrust them back.
"Why would you do that?" he asked, trying to sound calm, but his uproarious ascension and his clenched implied otherwise.
"Why not? She wants to eradicate my city." Jaime shook his head slowly, and measuredly, as if trying to understand her certitude within his mind, without having to ask for clarification
"She wants to build a few orphanages and bath houses." He spoke like he was talking to a child, trying to drill into her mind the simplicity of the matter. Facts she already knew and had so wonderfully complicated for her councillors, leading to them agreeing for nessecity of a summons. "Not demolish it to build anew."
"I would quite like to see what she has to say for herself."
"We are at war;Stannis Baratheon has an army in the north and all you and your councillors can sit and talk about is a young girl who is trying to help the people of your city. Perhaps you should remember the debt the Crown is in, and the fact that she has the means to pay it off."
"I've told you before, I'm not taking charity from a whore." Slowly, she began to saunter around the table, her fingers stroking the table as she walked on passed. She ended up before him, their faces close, and her eyes fixated upon his.
"What do you want Cersei?" he asked with a lackadaisical sigh, as she reach up to caress his face. A first he flinched away, but then after a moment he let it settle, as her thumb continued to stroke in soothing motions.
"Look what's happening – she is coming between us."
"No she isn't." he replied. "I don't know why you think she is against you."
"Let us not speak of her anymore." Her hand slid around his neck to pulled him down to her height and unite their lips together. "I want you." She spoke under a husky breath, her lips slightly pouted, as she could feel heat rising from his cheek. She placed her other hand to his chest, letting her fingers breach the threshold of his blue linen shirt, in-between the loosely pulled ties.
She kissed him softly, and felt him respond. Their lips moved together in a union as blissful as a taste of heaven. His left hand slid down her body, grasping onto her waist, pulling her eagerly against him.
She gripped him tight, inhaling his kisses, and then offering him her tongue. She felt him mumble into her kiss, but could quite distinguish the word. She assumed it had been an endearment, or a hotly spoken intention, possible a cuss word spoke from the containment of his desires.
It was only when he wretched their lips apart, and shoved her back a pace, that she'd realised what he'd said; No. No? The push he'd served her had not been exceptionally hard, but had well and truly winded her.
"What do you mean no?" She questioned, with bated breath. Her bones juttered within their casements as though they could rattle out the tune of infuriated timbers for all to her. Her limbs were uncontrollably trembling. And it took all her might to bring her muscles to a rigid still.
Jaime couldn't look at her. He too was breathing deeply, though not quite so sporadically as Cersei. "I can't." he spoke weakly. Swiping his palm across his brow. Squeezing his eyes tight as he rubbed his temples.
"You can't?!" she questioned aghast, her nostrils flaring in a whole different kind of fury. Never once had he rejected her so blatantly. "Has impotency detained you so young brother?"
"No." he answered promptly, quick to preserve the reputation of his virility. "I just…we can't. Someone might walk in, I have a lot to do…" his voice trailed out, as his futile excuses reached their unconvincing culmination. Lies brother, Lies.
"That didn't stop you last time!" She hollered. Her voices volumes had escalated to new heights. Her arm lashed out like a slavers whip, in direction to the shield shaped table of which he'd once so keenly had her upon.
"Now's not the right time." He spoke, looking everywhere but upon her.
"It's her isn't it?" she accused, feeling tears of fiery hatred burn the iris of her emerald eyes.
"No Cersei…." Jaime proclaimed, utterly aghast and wholeheartedly wearied at her incessance. "It's nothing to do with her. We barely find a kind word to say to one another these days. You chide me, you mock me and now you want to bed me?"
"We've always been like that."
"No – we haven't." he affirmed.
"Well what's changed?" she queried, ensuring to hide the essence of plea.
"Everything." He answered, aligning his wandering eyes to her own. A rare sincerity was present in his voice, one that was scarcely heard amidst his usual remarks of cynicism and scorn.
"I haven't." she asserted, with an unarguable quality to her voice. Her chest locked as she watched his face flicker with expressions she had never witnessed.
"No, you haven't." he agreed. His eyes clinched harshly to hers. Despite the severity of his stare, a sadness was ever-present. "But I have." He added on, allowing his eyes to trail away.
Cersei stared back at him, stoic, incensed. Vowing that if one more word came out of his mouth she'd beat him like a dog.
"That was a very big mistake." She spoke, to which he nodded; a gesture that neither agreed nor disagreed; he was merely comprehending her words, offering no recant. Repentance was not present, and for some reason that hurt more than words ever could.
She left the room in a torrent of black swirls, like a sinister whirlwind, that was hell-bent on bringing the world to heel. She tore down the stairs, wheeling around like the breeze, whilst her head remained a hazy, incomprehensible blur of everything and nothing. All at one her world had come crashing around, only to be rebuilt by her new sense of vitality.
It felt like the end. The end of something that had once been so beautiful. Jaime her three beautiful children and for that reason alone she'd always be thankful to him, but a new dawn was impending. A dawn in which she no longer needed him. It was the first time in all her life that she'd felt some complete without the necessity of his presence. She was destined for greatness and he was content to reside in mediocracy.
A new world was dawning. Her Kingdom was arising. And it would be a place wherein those who fell, would never again rise.
Margaery Tyrell and the Whore of the Realm had no place in Cersei Lannister's Kingdom.
A/N- Thank you for the support X