CERSEI
Once more the queen dreamed she was back in the forest. This this time Melara Hetherspoon was not with her at all; instead she was alone in the thick, choking fog. She caught sight of her reflection in her puddle as her feet bore her towards her inevitable destination: she was a girl again, as young as Myrcella.
When Maggy the Frog's hut rose up out of the fog ahead of her, Cersei did not resist. She knew she could not. No matter how hard she tried to resist, she would still hear the witch's words. "Three children you shall have," came the thin, snaking hiss. "Gold shall be their crowns" – and so they had been – "and gold their shrouds" – and so they would be.
"And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar will wrap his hands around your pale white throat and you shall know no more." Then the witch begin to laugh, high and shrill, till the blood in Cersei's ears felt like it was boiling, and all at once she woke, and sat for a few moments heaving in the darkness.
The queen realised then that her thighs were sticky. She looked down to see a flow of dark liquid running through her legs. Her face was damp with sweat, too. Slowly she sat up, though the movement was so languid it was as though she were still dreaming. She felt no horror at the sight. Blood was blood, that was all. And she was an aging woman, and even if these irregular bleedings had come earlier than she'd expected, they did not mean the end for her. All it meant was that Maggy the Frog had been right. Three children you shall have. And no more.
Cersei climbed from her bed, walked to the window, and threw open the shutters. All at once the wind came howling in; it was bitingly cold, and made goosebumps rise on her flesh. She waited there for a long while, staring out into the night and the rain and thinking. Then she went to her door, and called for Joy Hill to draw up a bath for her.
"It's the middle of the night, Your Grace," came the girl's sleepy reply.
"Will it matter to you what time it is when I have you whipped for insolence?" Cersei hurled back.
"No, Your Grace."
"Good." Obedience was all she needed nowadays. "And afterwards, send for Qyburn."
"Yes, Your Grace." The girl went.
When she was gone Cersei walked to her wardrobe and took her wool night-gown from a peg. She poured half a cup of strong Dornish red, then went out onto the terrace. There was a blood-leaf tree out here in summer, but now it was naked and even the fallen leaves had been swept away. The small pool out here had frozen over entirely. Cersei sat in its shadow and gazed out to the west, over the sea, thinking.
Her thoughts went first to Myrcella, which was not surprising. After all, the princess's escape – if that was what you chose to call it – would happen tonight. It might even be happening at this very moment. Myrcella would be down there now in the Rock proper, with Margaery Tyrell and Eleyna Westerling and all her Companions. They would take out their shields and swords and the princess would don a cloak of red and gold, and maybe some armour to match, though that, of course, would be wholly for decoration. They would march through the Great Gate to the stables in the bailey, and climb onto horses that had been made ready for them in the days before, by loyal squires and guardsmen. And then they would ride out of the Lion's Mouth, to Crakehall or to Cornfield or to Peckledon Castle, someplace where the princess had more allies than the queen did, and Myrcella would take up her crown, and a war would begin.
Cersei knew all this, of course, because Qyburn was not around for nothing. She wondered if Myrcella knew that she knew. Certainly her daughter had given no signs away during their supper earlier that day, but it seemed a ludicrous lack of foresight to assume the Queen Regent was entirely blind to her plans: a mistake no shrewd Lannister would make.
Yet shrewdness, Cersei also knew, was something that deserted you when the heart reigned over the head. And she thought: if Myrcella marched up here tonight instead of out of the gate, and demanded that I yield the throne to her, what would I say? What would I do?
Fight, perhaps. If I had the heart. Or lack of one. But did it really matter? There was only one way forward. It was promised. Gold shall be their crowns, and gold their shrouds.
That was not the only prophecy. Golden is the brother, a golden giant's gleam. He shall slay the valonqar, making you a queen. And so Robert Strong had fulfilled his purpose. No one else could have slashed at her son with such power and ferocity to all but tear a steel helmet in two.
She did wonder, occasionally, if Tommen would necessarily have died if he had not been the fruit of her incest. Qyburn, conducting the examination prior to the wake, had observed that, like his brother Joffrey before him, the late king was extremely prone to excessive bleeding. She half-remembered a time when Tommen had been picking flowers in the Red Keep's gardens and had been stung by a thorn, and had been bleeding for hours. So, that was where it had begun. It had ended on a stone table in Casterly Rock's sept, with the son she had birthed lying there deathly pale, his eyes closed, looking entirely peaceful – save, of course, for the hideous cut that had torn open his face. There was a messy line of stitches where Qyburn had sewn the ear back on, but strangely, the matted blood in his hair could not be washed out no matter how hard they tried. Maybe it was there for a reason, to remind her that some things were irreparable.
She had wept for Tommen, though she wasn't sure why. She was not made of stone, but at the same time she felt weak all the way through. Why? she had thought at first. He was planning to overthrow me, and tear down the House I built. And the House Father built, and all our ancestors before us. But then, afterwards, she realised that she was weeping for the boy he had been, and not for the man he had become.
So be it. Maybe it would have been better to bury him as he had died, in his silver armour with the golden lions, red cloak streaming out behind him. Instead he went to his gods wrapped up all in black and gold velvet, made a Baratheon one last time. She kept the red cloak, though, for House Lannister – yet she was not quite sure Tommen had ever been a Lannister. To be a Lannister meant you had to be cold as old gold: deaf to the pleas of the world, deaf to those who were crying out for mercy. And he had never been deaf. Or maybe he had, and it was irony. Maybe that was what the sliced-off ear meant.
Sometimes she wished she had burned him, as they burned the Targaryens. With burning, it was all over in moments, and the flesh smoked off the bones and rose in orbital rings into the sky, to be endlessly reconciled with all days and all the nights to come. But he was in the crypt instead, buried beneath time and stone. If she wanted, she could go down to him. See how the skin had gone grey and peeled back from his cheeks, from his blackening lips. How the golden hair had turned impossibly pale, and started to shed itself, in curls and wisps. How the sixteen years had become a thousand, as if, in a way, he had always been dead.
Sixteen years. That was what the gods and Maggy the Frog had given her. Though in reality it was less than that, wasn't it? She had stopped loving Tommen the moment he had stopped needing it. She had been doing a lot of thinking about why, in a way, she had loved her youngest son most of all. Oh, to be sure, she had loved Joffrey more, once; but he was the heir to the throne; that could be excused. As for Myrcella, she had never needed Cersei; she had always been independent, in a way, from the very first, through fault of them both. But Tommen had been hers all the way, ready to forgive and forget anything. She had thought that he would forgive her actions at the coup. Instead he had tried to kill her. That was what stayed in her mind longest, and what gave her nightmares: the green, wildfire madness in his eyes, in that long brief second where all others had been frozen in place, and only he and she seemed capable of moving. That madness had been her gift to him. She wondered what he would have done if Robert Strong had not gotten in the way.
Golden is the brother, a golden giant's gleam. He shall slay the valonqar, making you a queen.
She had always assumed the valonqar meant Tyrion.
A droplet of blood ran down her thigh, curiously warm. Cersei watched as it traced its way down, down, dropping off her leg at last, before burrowing its way into the earth at her feet.
Some time passed, and then Joy Hill was at the door again. "Your Grace, your bath is run," the girl said. "And Maester Qyburn is outside."
"Give me a minute. Then send him in." Cersei moved back out of the cold. "And bring more wine," she added. When Joy was gone, she shed her clothes and climbed into the tub. The blood from around her thighs flowed off, staining the hot water, but she did not mind.
Qyburn came in, and took a seat on the chair nearest the door. His winter robes had fur around the collar, yet he seemed death-pale. "Your Grace," he said. "Do you require to make any inspection of you?"
Cersei shook her head. "Blood is blood. No. I called you here for a different reason."
"Your Grace?"
"Do you remember what I told you about the witch?"
"The maegi, Your Grace?"
"Maggy. Yes. That is what she was called."
"It occurs to me that she may have been right. No, that she was right. And always was. I am doomed to lose my children. It will be Myrcella next. When she reaches… wherever she is going, she will crown herself. And then we will be on the last part of the road." Golden shrouds.
Qyburn said quietly, "What do you want me to do, Your Grace?"
"I want you to keep watch. You have your little birds. I want to know everything she does. I want to know everywhere she goes, who her friends are, and who her enemies are. But more than that, I want her to never know that we are watching her. Can that be done?"
"I make no promises, Your Grace. But I will do what I can. If it please you, I can send my ravens now—"
"Yes, you might as well. And ravens to the Westerlords, too, of course. And to their heirs, to prevent Steffon Swyft from getting any ideas while his father is our guest." Indeed, if Ser Harys Swyft had been her father, she might have considered his execution to her benefit. "And see to it that the Marbrands is well accomodated." Lady Marbrand, Ser Addam's wife, had come down from the Golden Tooth in the wake of the rumours of ironmen invading on their western coast.
"Is there aught else, Your Grace?"
Cersei considered a moment. "My ships."
Her vessels had undergone a spate of renaming in the past few weeks, after the traitors had unveiled themselves. Golden Rose and Sweet Margaery had become Western Thorn and Proudfoot respectively. Brave Falcon was now Speedbird, after the Arryn betrayal; Lady Dorna, named for her uncle's inspid wife, was now Charity, and the Lord Tyrion had become the Devil's Tongue. Neither Tommen nor Jaime nor her father would have allowed that last mockery of the Imp. But what they thought no longer mattered.
Qyburn said, "Another few weeks, Your Grace, and the whole fleet will be fit for use. The crewmen are already performing manuevres with the Lord Tywin, the Lady Joanna, the Produfoot, and the King Tommen's Honour. And of course, the Speedbird is scouting near Faircastle. Her crew has not yet sent back any reports."
"Tell the builders I retain my full confidence in their abilities. But at the same time, remind them I do not intend to be disappointed. Everything must be set in order at the right time. And as for the… the other thing."
"The tunnels, Your Grace?"
"Yes. The tunnels. How is that going?"
"The current stockpile is sufficient, Your Grace. And I promise you, it will act more effectively than it did with the ringfort. Yes. The substance is quite improved." He might have said more, but suddenly he quietened, and they both heard footsteps from outside. "A visitor for Your Grace, I think," Qyburn said.
The footsteps came louder and more frantic. Then there was a rapid knock on the door, and Qyburn opened it to reveal her cousin, Ser Damion Lannister, red and flushed from running. Ser Damion made a hasty bow. "Your Grace. Forgive my intrusion, but I have had word from the Lion's Mouth."
So this is about Myrcella. "And what would that be?" asked Cersei, feigning surprise.
"I – there is no easy way to say this, Your Grace. The Princess Myrcella has left the castle. And she has taken a small army with her."
"An army?" It was important to sound surprised. "But where is she going?"
"I… I cannot say, Your Grace." Ser Damion had gone quite pale now; he looked ready to die on the spot.
"We should assemble a council," said Cersei coolly.
"Here, Your Grace? Now?"
"You are awake, aren't you, Ser Damion?"
"Yes, Your Grace. But the other councillors might not be."
"I am certain that they can be woken. Meanwhile, I shall make myself presentable. Call in Joy Hill, if you would."
Her older cousin shuffled out and the girl shuffled back in. "You require a gown, Your Grace?"
"Yes," the queen said. "Not the black, though. Bring the red." And like that, quite simply, her mourning was over. Time now to be a queen.
Down in the great hall, the queen's servants, bleary-eyed at their early rousing, took away the black-and-gold mourning banners, and draped red from the balcony and the eaves again. They replaced the window drapes and cushions likewise, rolled out crimson carpets, set the table with thin silver cups and tall flagons of dark red wine. Candles were set out too, wax burning yellow along the table's length, and rushes laid out, and the great chandelier hoisted up to the ceiling. The heralds stood by, and the armsmen flanked the entrance, and then the great oaken doors were opened, and the queen and her Queensguard entered first. Her dress was heavy red samite, set with tiny seed pearls that hissed when she moved, slashed with black velvet and black lace around the cuffs. Upon her golden head rested a slim golden coronet set with a lone black stone.
Then came the rest of the councillors: Ser Harys Swyft, the Knight of Cornfield, his cloak made with peacock feathers and a great deal of foppery. Her sweating, fearful cousin Ser Damion. Lady Lefford and Lord Payne, the despereately sycophantic ones. Lord Farman, her master of ships, who had proved a surprising ally. Maester Creylen – a matter of respect, that. And Qyburn, her soft-spoken right hand, even if he did not wear the Hand's badge for it would grievously insult the rest. Besides, if she withheld the Handship, it gave them all something to strive towards.
"You will have heard by now," Cersei said, "that Princess Myrcella has left the castle, against my will. We believe that she means to head due south, to find allies among our bannermen. And then, I presume, she will return to try and take the Rock."
"The Rock is impregnable, Your Grace," said Lady Lefford.
Cersei nodded. "It is unless someone is helping her on the inside. And that eventuality seems very likely. But Qyburn assures me that he will find the culprits soon enough. And I assure you that they will be reprimanded appropriately."
"Yes, Your Grace," they chorused, "oh, yes, Your Grace."
"Now," said the queen, "I believe we can take Princess Myrcella's desertion of the castle as a sign of the queenly duties her brother's death might have bestowed on her. In that case…"
"That would make your accession lawful, Your Grace," said Qyburn.
"That it would. All the same, I see no purpose in overtly grandiose ceremony. If Myrcella intends to rebel, then we have a war to win."
"Either way, it might be wise to call your bannermen to the castle, Your Grace," said Qyburn. "That way we can see who has betrayed your trust."
"It is a good plan. Though, by the time Myrcella has assembled an army, I think it will be obvious. The Westerlings stand with her for a start. And that is a problem. Even if we capture Myrcella, we still have Eleyna Westerling to deal with." To the council she explained: "The girl claims to be carrying my son's child."
She let them react to that news. "This will present problems," mumbled Ser Harys Swyft after a time.
Cersei frowned, sour-lipped. "Obviously. We shall have to do all that we can to discredit these claims."
"I saw that there was some familiarity between Lady Eleyna and one of her squires," said Ser Harys.
"Oh, that is certainly possible," said Lady Lefford. "We shall have to decide which one. There was… the Frey boy, who brought Myrcella to the Rock… the Vance boy…"
"The Vance boy is harmless to us while his father and Jonos Bracken are busy freezing to death in the north," said Cersei. She had sent the Lords Vance and Bracken north in the company of Lyle Crakehall and Addam Marbrand. "But this Frey boy would suit."
"Your Grace," Qyburn intoned quietly. "If things grew fraught, a remedy might be smuggled into Lady Eleyna's wine, that would—"
"I know what it would do," Cersei snarled. "And I forbid it. Unconditionally." She did not hate Eleyna Westerling as she did Margaery Tyrell. Speaking of whom… "Myrcella has taken Lady Margaery, too," she went on, "though I do not think we can expect the retribution of the Tyrells anytime soon. Nor the Martells. Daenerys Targaryen burned them to cinders on the Blackwater."
There was a long pause. Finally it was Lord Payne who asked the question they had all been considering. "And what if she comes for us, Your Grace?"
"Lord Qyburn?"
"A well-placed shot from a scorpion will kill a dragon, Your Grace. I have been developing weapons for such a use. Along with... other methods. Should a dragon somehow find its way inside the Rock, we have the capacity to…"
"That is enough." Cersei did not need the others worrying incessantly. But, she thought, it might be good to keep them unnerved.
"Mayhaps," Ser Harys Swyft suggested quaveringly, "we should turn our attention back to our northern shores. These reports… I have heard that this western invasion is not the work of the ironborn, but of—"
"Dead men," said the queen, distastefully. "You need not fear, Ser Harys. They are but rumours, I am sure. When the crew of the Speedbird return from their scouting mission, and they may be able to tell us more." And if they do not return, we may make our own conclusions then.
"My daughter is up there," said Ser Harys. "Dorna." He had gone very pale, his chicken throat bobbed up and down. "With your uncle Kevan."
"My treacherous uncle Kevan, you mean."
Ser Harys made a strained clucking noise.
"Has Ser Jaime sent you any word?" asked Maester Creylen.
That caught her off guard a moment. "Ser Jaime." She swallowed. "No. Jaime has sent me nothing."
"Do you think he has reached Faircastle yet, Your Grace?"
"We have no way of knowing."
The meeting was all a matter of procedure after that. Eventually the others rose from the table and went out silently into the night. The queen remained with Lord Qyburn. "Do you think," she said, "that it is time?"
"Time, Your Grace?" Then: "Oh. You mean. Well, it was only Princess Myrcella you meant to deter, was it not?"
"True, but… sometimes I wonder if this was the wisest decision after all."
"Would you like to see for yourself, Your Grace?"
They went out of the hall, but instead of climbing to her chambers they descended yet further. At the entrance to the castle undercroft, she found Ser Robert Strong waiting. Huge, eight feet tall, all in gold, with his pure white cloak and the devil's bloody eyes. A shiver went through her, but she suppressed it. A guard gave her a fur mantle, which she put around her shoulders.
One door led to the tombs. The other descended further, to the black cells. With every step down the long corridor, Cersei felt her heart beating faster. She remembered a story about some players who had once insulted Lord Tywin in their performance. It was said that they were still behind one of these doors, no longer able to walk or talk, but alive.
At the very furthest door they stopped, and Qyburn, by the light of a torch, took out his ring of keys, searched through them, and then placed one into the lock. There was a loud click, and then the door swung inwards.
For a long time she could not see anything. But then Qyburn moved his torch and the figure came into view, hunched over on the ground, his once-golden hair hanging long and lank and coarse. His face was blackened with dirt, and as he looked up at her, Jaime did not seem to recognise her at all.
And then, suddenly, he did. Recognition came into his eyes, and then it ignited, became fire. An animal noise rose in his throat, and he moved forwards, inch by inch. The noise rose. "Cersei…"
There has been no change. "Close the door," the queen said, very coolly. And Ser Robert Strong did as she commanded.
