Part 6 – Red Cloaked Discomfort
Lancel (III)
Lancel exited the Small Council's hall to find Tyrek and several Lannister household guards angrily staring off against Stark's northern stooge doormen. "Cousin," he acknowledged, striding between the two guard's wearing grey cloaks adorned with a white emblem of the Hand to join the safety of the small group clad in familiar red, where one of the men-at-arms already held the reins of his horse.
"Cousin," Tyrek coolly responded, as he pivoted to walk beside Lancel. He then leaned over to whisper, "Word of your return has reached Maegor's Hold. You are expected."
"Cersei," Lancel sighed softly, understanding the command.
"The Queen," and Tyrek hardened his tone as he spoke Cersei's title, "deigns to hear the latest news on the health of her husband, the King, and her son, the Prince."
Lancel reddened, remembering the not quite vague, shameful instructions given him by the unreachable golden lady of his dreams barely a fortnight earlier. He hoped the dust and grime of the road hid the heat from the pleasure, agony, and guilt suddenly surging within him as he thought of her. "Yes, certainly," he murmured, trying to gather himself. "So, tell me cuz, what is the news of King's Landing. What gossip and scandal have I missed these last two weeks."
His cousin scowled at the question, looking around the outer yard as they continued walking toward the portcullis for the middle bailey. "The Winterfell bastards blame us for the attack two nights anon."
"A battle here? In the Red Keep?" he gushed.
"No, by the docks. Sellsword scum ambushed the daughters of the Hand as they snuck to a ship."
"Were they killed? Injured?" The image of the fetching auburn haired Sansa flashed in his mind's eye.
"The younger may have been wounded," Tyrek answered.
Lancel whistled as he drudged up a vague likeness of some horse-faced tomboy. "This must end the Stark girl's engagement to Joffrey. What happened to them?"
"The ungrateful bitches made a Braavos ship thanks to some of her sailors. Many of the Northerners and gold cloaks escorting them though were killed or wounded. Stop a moment, Lancel," Tyrek said, coming to a halt. "Go grab what gear you need. Deron will take this shabby nag to the stable. What happened to that dark bay of yours?"
Lancel gritted his teeth while he unstrapped his saddlebag, glad none could see the shame on his face as he said, "The King gifted her to the commander of the sellsword company he came upon."
Tyrek grunted at the news. "So that rumor was true. And the King returns?"
Lancel turned back and nodded a 'yes' to the question.
"Hand your bag over, I'll carry it; you look a tad worn," offered the slender Tyrek. Lancel gladly accepted his younger cousin's offer. The group resumed marching and soon passed through the wall, guarded by gold cloaks, and into the middle bailey.
Lancel jerked his head back toward the watch. "They were helping the Stark's brats. Are they now in the Hand's pay?"
"No, only some I think. Word is those that night were Allar Deem's men. He's even more gold grubbing than Janos Slynt."
From the entrance to the Tower of the Hand, a few more of Stark's Northerners glared across the bailey at them as they made their way to the Dragontail Stair that led up to Maegor's Holdfast.
"So they blame us for the attack on their precious chits," posed Lancel. "Have there been any fights?"
"Some fists, but no steel … yet," Tyrek replied, with venom in his voice. "Stark has few bannermen left in King's Landing, so the cowards are staying close to the Hand's Tower for now. We've watched which lords' men are now helping them, and we shan't forget it."
"A Lanister …," started Lancel.
"… always pays his debts," both Lancel and Tyrek finished.
Mandon Moore stood guard by the door of the Royal Apartments, but stepped aside to let the two Lannister cousins pass without hindrance. A steward waited within and led them to the Queen's bedchamber. At a knock, a sweet brunette Lady in Waiting, some eligible cadet daughter from House Swyft, opened the door and bobbed her head at the two squires. "You are expected Lord Lancel. Please enter."
As he stepped through the door, he felt a rush of air as the maiden interposed herself between the cousins.
"What? Here now!" barked Tyrek, adolescent voice losing any authority by cracking.
"Please forgive me valiant Lord Tyrek, but her Grace deigns to interview Lord Lancel alone," the woman, only a few years older than his cousin, sweetly replied. "Come, let me entertain you while we wait the Queen's pleasure."
"Hhmph!" he snorted, but still, he took a step back.
Lancel, now within, tried not to gaze at the big, soft feather bed dominating the room.
"Fyshor, leave us," came the seductive, commanding voice that tormented his dreams. A smarmy, dark skinned Myrman trader bustled out from the recesses of the bedchamber, sketching Lancel a bow as he passed.
"Come sit with me Lancel." He entered the alcove, a large cushioned chair sat facing a window. Bolts of thick, plush velvet unwound out of the seat. He walked around the chair. Buried beneath the cloth sat his golden haired goddess. He dropped to a knee, head bowed.
"Your Grace," he uttered, tongue swelling within his parched mouth, making it difficult to speak.
"Help me rise cousin, I appear trapped," the dulcet voice commanded.
"Of course!" He leapt to his feet and started throwing aside the merchant's wares without a care for where they landed until only her low cut gown lay between him and her.
Cersei giggled and held out her hands. "My savior."
Lancel's heart fluttered. He wrapped his hands around her slender wrists and pulled her out of the chair. Standing, she leaned forward and gave him a hug. He felt himself grow turgid as her sweet breasts pressed against his chest. Cersei kissed his cheek in greeting, then he heard her take a long breath of him. Nervous perspiration burst forth all over him, he knew she must feel his swollen member pressing against her taut belly.
"Ehhmm, you smell so good, Lancel, musky, vibrant, manly; not like that fat, sweaty boar Robert," she whispered in his ear. He knew it wrong, but his eyes fluttered as he thought he might spend himself right there. Then Cersei stepped back and asked with disdain, "and how is the King?"
"Alive. Healthy. Returning to King's Landing," croaked Lancel drily, though all the rest of him dripped wetness, even his engorged cock.
Cersei spun away from him. "Lovely," bitterly ground out from her beautiful, succulent lips. "And when might I see my esteemed husband?"
"He meant to leave yesterday, but intended to ride beside some of the sellsword foot he discovered …"
"Yes," the Queen interrupted, her back and tightly curved bottom still facing him, "a mystery you must tell me more of later. And Joffrey rides with them too?
"Yes my Queen."
"So …?"
"I would expect them here in two more days, my lady."
"Very well," and she began to pace and turn in dramatic swirls, gown swishing, bosom heaving, delicate fingers strumming off each other; a mesmerizing vision. "Time enough I suppose." She suddenly stopped, quirking her head to gaze directly at him, brilliant green eyes burning right into his heart.
"I am yours Cersei," he whispered to her, entranced, ensorcelled, maddened.
A corner of a luscious red lip curled into a brief smile. "Good. Lannisters protect each other, don't we Lancel?"
He nodded dumbly in agreement. He could still faintly detect the scent she left on him in their too brief embrace.
"So you must return to the King."
"Hunh? What?" he stuttered, stunned by her unexpected order.
"You and Tyrek both, you are his squires. Yes, none would suspect. Your places are by the bloated Stag's side."
"Suspect what?" Lancel asked, confused.
"A message. The Hand threatens me cousin. He speaks vile lies and promises to spread them to Robert."
"The dog," Lancel snapped in righteous anger.
"And he threatens poor Joffrey. Casterly Rock too. We all know he's already kidnapped the Imp. We must get … word out. He will listen, and he will act!" Cersei swore heatedly.
"Wha .. when should we leave?"
"At first light tomorrow. Take Vylaar, and twenty red cloaks with you. There may be danger on the road. I will send two pages to you in the stables. They will bear messages; one for you, and one to deliver. Take the pages with you as well, you will have need of them." As the Queen spoke, her voice became more and more animated. She stepped closer and closer to him, till she rested her hands on his arms, staring deeply into him, weighing his soul; seeing his total devotion to her. "Can you do this for me sweet cousin?" she pleaded softly.
"Always," Lancel whispered, leaning forward to touch those lips, till Cersei abruptly spun away while still taking a hand of his, tugging at it.
"Come, tell me of this magical band of cutpurses and murderers my darling husband miraculously stumbled upon. It smells too much of intrigue. But whose plot? And whom do they mean to snare with it? Perhaps your telling may reveal a clue." The Queen led Lancel to a chair which she gently pushed him into. When she turned to make her own seat, he quickly adjusted himself to keep his clothes from chaffing and pinching so painfully at his agonizing tumescence.
Joffrey (I)
The vinegar piss these 'Romans' called a watered wine clutched hard in his craw, so he threw his goblet disgustedly to the dirt. Joffrey yearned to be back at the Holdfast, downing a fine golden while his grovelers bantered about to amuse him. Few of his set had come, blast them, thanks to his father's haste in giving chase to the white stag, only wolf meat now. And the prince found those of his companions left him the last two week's irksome beyond all patience. Hunting made fine diversion for a day or two, if the prey were plentiful, he decided, but soon turned to something like work; hot, sweaty, tiring, and dull.
With bored eyes the Prince looked around the exceedingly tight, completely unbefitting space granted the King's party within the busybody foreigner's earthen paddock. Joffrey smiled to himself as he derided his hosts in his mind, 'What sheep they are to need to be safely penned away at night.' He next imagined to himself what it would look like to have several of the sellsword scum skewered on a true knight's lance, his lance. The smile quickly faded to a scowl as the damned minstrel began the second verse of Fifty Four Tuns. 'This must be the hundredth time I've heard this,' he whined. 'Why play it? My blasted father isn't even here to add his drunken bass to the interminable chorus of his favorite song.' Joffrey ground his teeth at the tedious tavern jingle, but forced himself to hold his peace since both Royces and some of the other Sers present were stamping their feet in beat to the peasant song.
He stood up, staggering a bit. He must escape the noise before it drove him crazy. The Stag was out wandering amongst the coin grubbing foot soldiers. 'Why shouldn't I take a princely stroll and impress them too,' he thought.
He waggled his tongue in his mouth, trying to remove the heavy film of wine piss choking his palate. Then Joffrey remembered that skin of wine he'd filched out of Lancel's stash several days earlier. He'd only drunk half of it, a sour red from Dorne, but it left a warm feeling in the belly. He stumbled into his small tent and rummaged about till finding it under a bundle of dirty clothes. He took a long draught. "Ahhh." Almost immediately a pleasant warmth churned in his belly.
Standing back up in the light of the camp fire, Joffrey spotted the familiar scarred visage staring at him through the flickering illumination. Over the sound of the dreadful tune, he shouted, "Come Hound. I wish to walk among my new bannermen." Without looking, the Prince strode out of the small enclave of Westerosi into the realm of Romans.
Though none watched him, the large, heavily muscled man paused just long enough to prove his insolence before standing and following his ward.
Joffrey paused in his stroll to tilt back the wineskin. He wiped the side of his mouth as some leaked out. All of the sellswords he'd passed in the well defined lanes between their eight man tents nodded a greeting at him as they passed; including a small number who said their foreign tongued 'hello' of "Ave." But most had neared smirked at him and a couple even chuckled. The Prince thought hard on the reason to no avail. He checked his trousers to see if his member accidentally hung in the night breeze. No. His brain told him to drink more wine. So he did. Still something nagged at him and he wondered if he should feel insulted.
"Hound? They do not give me my proper respect, do they?"
"No," came the bored response from the dark behind him.
He knew it. He was being insulted. His mother was right, always look for slights, for if you look hard enough you will see them, and then pay your debt like a Lannister should. "Why?"
"The way you cried after you fell off your horse."
Joffrey stomped his foot. "I did not fall, the bastard pulled me. And I certainly did not cry!" 'Great Knights are feared, not mocked,' he told himself, feeling very dangerous and strong.
"As you wish," Clegane answered with a condescending tone, further infuriating the Prince by its implication he might actually have done something to embarrass himself.
"Piss on your wishes Hound. And piss on them," Joffrey barked.
A shout of "Sileo!" came from the nearest tent.
Anger flared in Joffrey's eyes and he turned toward where the yell came from. "Don't tell me what to do in your jibber-jabber! I will piss on you, you low born scum!" his adolescent voice screeched. The Prince fumbled at his trousers, loosening the belt, yanking them low enough so he could grasp himself. A wine powered stream of yellow gold sprayed on the closest tent. Joffrey and the Hound laughed while to see several bodies roll out, angrily yelling in their strange tongue, from beneath the target of royal ire.
Joffrey lost his grip as the first man to stand shoved him hard, causing the spray to start wetting his own pants as much as anything else. Sandor Clegane unwound a boot that drove into the man's gut causing him to crumple into another tent. The man's comrades immediately crouched into brawling positions.
"Kill them Dog! Kill them!" Joffrey bawled, terror and blood lust filling his voice.
The Hound responded to the threat by partially pulling his thick blade from its scabbard, causing the scared peasants to stay in place. But Clegane's confident sneer dimmed as more Romans rolled out from nearby tents to see what the commotion was.
The Prince felt a strong hand grab his shoulder. "Come boy, I don't feel like killing so many insects tonight."
After their hasty departure, the Hound had soon grown disinterested in wandering the sellsword stable, leaving Joffrey with only his near empty wineskin for company. The corner of the jumped up scoundrels camp he now approached was better lit, more populated, and louder than any part he'd seen since leaving his own fire. Men gathered around in a circle, shouting out encouragement to some action in their center they watched. The Prince wondered if some martial activity drew the cheers, perhaps wrestling or a boxing match. He decided his fiery blood might be cooled by watching some wretch get injured, so he wiggled between the taller spectators to gain a view of the sport.
Joffrey saw two men dressed in cloaks pluck miniature bows no larger than a child's harp and fire dull ended wooden darts. He could not see the fool who must be the target of the abuse, but he could hear the buffoon baaing like a sheep and mewling like a coward. He joined the chuckles of derision as he angled around the peasant in front of him in order to catch a view of the deserving dunce. A man in a fine silk cloak crouched on all fours quivering in mock fear at the bolts landing near him. A top his head perched an overturned pot, sitting jauntily like a crown. Sticking out from beneath the pot was a wig of golden straw. Joffrey stopped laughing. His stomach surged in his belly. The fool was meant to be him.
"Stop it! Stop it!" the Prince shrieked shrilly, running into the firelight and kicking the creature who crawled on all four's to imitate a whimpering dog; a mockery of himself. As the man rolled in the dirt, Joffrey jerked out his dagger and spun around, showing the blade to all the gawkers gathered about. The other mummers participating in the scorn filled skit started to fire their blunted arrows at him.
"No one treats me that way!" he screamed. He staggered as he chased after the retreating swirl of maddening figures taunting him. He felt dizzy from the strength filling him with courage and daring him to render justice on the wicked. "I am the Stag!"
As he darted toward a group, the sea of people parted, and an ogre glowered down at him.
"No boy, I am the Stag," the monster's voice rumbled.
His arm holding the dagger turned toward the movement coming in from the outer edge of his vision. Then an enormous antler smashed into the side of his head.
He heard 'slap, slap, slap' sounds. All around was darkness. He felt a tingling come and go on his cheek. It stung. Something made him think all three sensations related to each other. A drumbeat of sounds now started to reverberate in his skull. He realized his head ached too.
"Wake up boy, wake up. Wake up boy, wake up. Wake up boy, wake up." Slap, slap, slap.
Joffrey opened his eyes to see an ugly, jowly, sweaty face staring at him.
"There you are. Now you're awake I ought to knock you out again. Have you the brains of a donkey?"
The King, his father, swam in and out of focus. Joffrey felt the putrid taste of bile in his mouth and a rumbling in his belly.
"I … ahhh …" He tried to sit up, but swooned. A strong hand grabbed the back of his head and yanked him upright.
"Here, this'll help clear your numbskull."
The nozzle of a wineskin plopped between his lips. His jaw hurt as he suckled the Arbor vintage.
"Better?" his father asked gruffly.
Joffrey tilted his head slowly in a nod of agreement. Still, the slow movement caused the earth to spin beneath him.
"Now you might have noticed there are more of them than there are of us. And I want these men, Joffrey.
"They are just sellsword scum," the Prince protested in a weak, but scornful voice.
"No, I know warriors. These men are more than that. Strong and skilled, but honorable too. And here they are lost, alone, without lands, coin, or woman. I can give them these things, indebt them to me; make the throne strong, never again to need a Tyrell or a Lannister, or need to hear the chirping of the Stormlords. Your flashing a blade in their faces makes my work harder. Behave!" The last word was emphasized with a cuff to the back of Joffrey's head.
Pain exploded in him, causing the Prince to lash out at his father. "Stop hitting me! Mother said you were to never do that again! Stop it! Stop it!" he wailed.
Large hands grabbed him and shook him, making the world spin even faster. "Be a man, not some pampered flower!" the Stag snarled. "Real life is hard and nasty, like these Romans; not the fake, hollow pretty place Cersei hides you in at the keep. So behave I say, or you'll get more of my hand."
"Father … they laughed at me!" the Prince whined angrily for his wounded pride.
"Be glad that's all they did. They kill for a living. And if these scum laugh at you, remember they laugh at themselves harder. You should give it a try, instead of acting the pissy prince all the time. Well? Can you?"
Joffrey moved his jaws, but no sound other than hollow gasps of air emerged.
"Stop gaping! Out with it!"
YACK!
The King hopped back from the vomit spewing out of Joffrey's mouth. "Gods be damned!" he roared, shaking puke off his sleeves. "How can a son of mine not hold his wine!"
Lancel (IV)
Vylarr stalked among the troop of the Queen's household guard gathered inside the stable, checking and double checking the readiness of each mount and each rider's gear in the pre-dawn hour. He spared no son of the Westerlands, not even Tyrek Lannister, from pointed criticism. The night before, the jumped up from small folk captain resisted the notion of leaving the Red Keep beyond all seemliness; only begrudgingly sliding into acquiescence when Lancel revealed the command to return himself, and his fellow squire and cousin, to the King originated with the Queen. Listening to the upstart berate the other members of the escort, clearly the man still harbored resentment towards the orders from his betters. Lancel vowed to one day reveal this minion's obstinacy to Father and Uncle Tywin; undoubtedly returning the ingrate to the true station of his birth, the lowest drinkshops of Lannisport.
The young man's musings ended at the approach of the two pages, both cloaked and hooded against the morning's chill, Cersei had told him would bring her secret messages. The taller of the slight youths stuck out a hand, holding two sealed envelopes. Lancel quickly snatched them up, clutching them to his chest.
He peeled one back, tilting his narrow chin down to peer through the dim torch light at the folded parchment. 'Casterly Rock? Why is one addressed there?' he wondered. 'We're to head to the Kingswood to rejoin the King.' Lancel had a sinking feeling something wasn't right. He looked over at the two pages, placidly standing around him, intruding on his disquiet.
"You're supposed to accompany me, aren't you?" he snapped.
Two red hoods nodded in agreement.
"Go find your horses. Captain Vylarr should already have them saddled for you," he commanded.
The two pages giggled at him, but otherwise simply stood stupidly in place. Lancel's cheeks bloomed pink at the impertinence. "Show your faces!"
Two smiling faces, one plump, the other delicate, both framed by close cropped black hair, looked up at him. He quirked his head to the side, not understanding the familiar faces staring back at him.
"Hi Lancel," the taller youth said in a girlish voice.
Lancel's stomach heaved. The acid taste of bile swirled bitterly in his mouth. "Hoods up!" he urgently hissed in a whisper. "What in Seven Hells are you doing here?!"
"Mother -"
"Quietly!"
"- said we were to take a surprise trip with you. She dyed our hair as part of the game. She said the note would explain everything," the older of the two declared excitedly.
His eyes swung back and forth to see if any were paying them heed. Luckily the two 'pages' appearance seemed to have only garnered a modicum of notice so far. Then he pulled up the second parchment. 'Lancel – Tyrek,' it announced in crimson letters. "Alright, let me read it. Stay here, and shhhhh, no talking." His finger slid under the sealed fold, popping the missive open. He unfolded it.
'Dearest Cousins, the Hand, with his lies and bewitchment of the King, seeks to unthrone me and declare my children bastards. He threatened me so a mere week ago. I fear for the lives of my lovely little ones. You must save them. Take them to Casterly Rock and my father. I am only a woman, but I will gladly face the wrath of the Stag knowing I can entrust the protection of my precious babies to my two brave Lannister Sers. Pray for me. Pray for Joffrey. Your Queen, Cersei.'
'The King has always loved this Stark more than even his own brothers,' Lancel thought, knees knocking. 'Its over three hundred leagues to Casterly Rock. How can I?' He looked back down at the parchment. A whiff of Cersei's perfume reached his nose through the stable's stench of straw and piss and dung. 'If Cersei is so valliant, surely I am strong enough to do what she asks,' he tried to convince himself.
"Tyrek! Vylarr! Come here!" he shouted before his resolved crumpled. "Keep those hoods up," he spoke softly, but fiercely.
"Yes m'Lord?"
"I see the pages we expected finally arrived with Cersei's notes, eh cuz."
"Erm, ahh, Tommen, Myrcella, say hello to your cousin and the captain," Lancel whispered. One hooded figure dropped a curtsey and the other sketched a bow.
"Others take me!" Vylarr swore.
"What?" Tyrek muttered in confusion.
"No, no, stand up Myrcella," Lancel whined. "Don't curtsey; remember, you're a page." He thrust Cersei's note at his cousin. "Read it, Tyrek. Read it!"
His cousin scanned the short note quickly. "Cersei wants us to take them all the way to Casterly Rock?!"
Lancel waived the other message, still sealed. "And this one must be for Uncle Tywin."
"What do we do?" Tyrek asked, doubt filling his voice.
The cousins shook with surprise as Vylarr's voice suddenly roared down the length of the stable. "MOUNT UP! Get on your damn horses and form up in the yard a'for my boot kicks your ugly arses!" The man then turned back to them. "This be treason to the King; make no mistake about it young Sers. But I were born a Lannister man and I'll die a Lannister man before I'd betray my oath. We go out the Mud Gate like planned, but then we make for the Goldroad. Stay close to the chits, no knowing what spies and assassins Stark has lurking about. If the chits can stand the pace, we'll make the Westerlands in twenty days; another ten after that to the Rock. I pray they can, cause in no more than two days ravens will be flying out with word of our escape. If you've the stomach for this, we leave in five minutes."
As the captain of the guard turned to leave, he bent down to Tommen and Myrcella. "My prince, my princess, we'll make soldiers of ya'yet," he said in a gruffly reassuring voice.
Lancel saw that Tyrek's face was likely as ashen as his own. "Cersei trusts us. Do we …?" he asked hesitantly.
His cousin nodded weakly, then gulped. "A Lannister always pays his debts."