May, 304 AC
"The Starry Sept has done what?"
The queen's voice was soft as the silk bedrobe she wore whilst her maids prepared her for bed. Even so, Grand Maester Pycelle recoiled from the look in Cersei's eyes, one wrinkled hand grasping the letter, the other clutching at his chain of office. An ugly thing, forged from every metal known to man, glittering with gems of many colors that sat uneasily together.
"Your Grace..." the old man swallowed, the loose wattles under his chin trembling. "The Most Devout said the choosing at the Great Sept of Baelor was invalid. They insist Luceon must give up the crystal crown, and have chosen their own High Septon, Septon Torbert."
The queen's nostrils flared. She remembered Torbert. A plump, sedate sort of man, always fawning over her. Years past, before Raynard became High Septon, he had always made much show of getting on his knees to wash the queen's feet whenever she visited the Great Sept.
That had changed after Raynard forgave the debt the crown owed the Faith. Torbert had proved so mutinous that the High Septon had no choice but to punish him. Some men might have had Torbert caned or slain, but in his mercy Raynard had merely banished him and the other wagging tongues among the Most Devout to Oldtown, where they might fill the Starry Sept with hot air. She should have known Torbert would betray her. He was born a Beesbury, staunch bannermen of the Hightowers, and they were the most powerful servants of Highgarden.
"We shall talk of this in council tomorrow," the queen decided. "Lord Tyrell will be eager to provide his counsel, I do not doubt."
By the time the queen was curled up in bed, her racing thoughts had calmed. Why should she fret over a second pretender? The High Dwarf had remained at Harrenhal nigh on three years now, and troubled her little. Oh, the dwarf might stir up treason amongst the lesser orders, but so had dozens of his kind during the reigns of other kings, and all of them had died screaming. Torbert was a mealy-mouthed lickspittle, and squeamish to boot. The rose's puppet was nothing compared to the lion's.
Luceon was the perfect choice, a canny, clever man, for all that he looked like a weasel. One could not reason with the commons. Like a pack of unruly hounds, one had to beat them when they misbehaved, perhaps feed them when their begging grew too loud. It was a truth Luceon knew well. One day he might write a sermon against rebellion and strife; the next he might hand out alms and hardbread to the poor.
And so when Raynard inconvenienced her by dying, she had moved quickly to ensure Luceon was chosen, rather than some Tyrell toady. Her new High Septon was as toothless as the old; she would not suffer one that might conspire against her. Luceon could not betray her even if he wanted, not when most of the nobility in the city politely shunned him, knowing he was born a Frey.
Thank the Seven the commons did not know. The queen had made certain through her informer Bel before seeing that Luceon was elevated. One never knew when gossip might tear through the city like wildfire. When Raynard died in a brothel whilst atop some poxy whore, the Street of Silk had burst into chaos, and what the whores knew, the rest of the city learned before nightfall. The queen had been irritated with Bel for that, but then, the brothel madam was a mere peasant randy for gold, not an ambitious, clever schemer like Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger would have found a way to hush up Raynard's death, no doubt, and robbed the treasury blind whilst doing it.
That night the queen dreamt she sat atop the Iron Throne. Petyr Baelish was dragged before her in chains, sniveling, his garments rent, his pointed beard half torn out. He begged for mercy, and Queen Cersei smiled as she bade Ser Ilyn Payne take him away. Next the guards brought her the High Dwarf, his bulbous nose smashed in, his mouth bleeding where they had torn out his tongue. Him she gave to Lord Qyburn, the crowd laughing and jeering as the dwarf struggled against his bonds.
Last they brought her Tyrion. Her little brother looked as he had looked in life. His mismatched eyes burned as he stared at her, and for long moments she met his gaze, trapped by the fierceness of his hate. When she called for the guards to take him away, the dwarf began to shake, his features turning even more grotesque. Pointed teeth sprouted from his mouth as he shredded his gag; claws sprouted from his stubby hands and rent his chains asunder as he lunged for her.
There was nowhere to run. The queen reeled back, only to find herself impaled upon the blades of the Iron Throne. Cold steel sliced into her flesh, cutting her right arm down to the bone—
The queen awoke to the sound of bells tolling the fifth hour of the morning. Her right arm still hurt; Cersei rubbed it, feeling the slick sweat upon her skin. It will snow today, that is all. Ever since the valonqar broke her arm, it pained her when the weather turned cold. Still, it would be good to see the filthy city covered in a blanket of fresh fallen snow, like the shroud they draped atop a Kingsguard when he died. No, she musn't think of that. No one knew, save a pimple faced squire who might have guessed too much. But he would never breathe a word, and if he did, who would care?
Ser Kevan Lannister, now, there was a kinsman worth mourning. Her uncle had served her faithfully and well, had given his very life in her service. Now Queen Cersei was the only one who could keep House Lannister in its rightful place, who could keep her son upon his throne. A hard task, when she was surrounded by flatterers and fools and enemies who hid behind smiles.
The Tyrells had slain Uncle Kevan, she knew it, thanks to her faithful lord confessor. Qyburn was all that Pycelle had once been, diligent and learned, but he was subtle too. One had to be subtle, if one meant to move against foes as perilous as Highgarden. Mace Tyrell did not want Tommen upon the throne, he wanted a grandson of his own blood, a babe whose name he might use to rule the realm.
How shocked he had been, when she proposed their children wed at last. A terrible sacrifice, but a necessary one. The queen must keep Tyrell fat and happy. Meria Sand had been quite distraught on the queen's behalf when she told the girl of her plans over a flagon of arbor gold. The bastard had hiccuped and wept while pleading that Tyrell could not be trusted, that the marriage would only endanger her beloved queen and her brave son.
"Never fear," the queen had soothed, patting the girl's hand. "A rose may have thorns, but the lioness has claws."
The queen stretched, her lips quirking in a smile as she heard maids quietly enter to stoke her fire. Today would be a good day, she knew it.
The bells tolled six times as she entered the royal sept to pray at the Hour of the Crone. A golden-robed septa lit incense at the altar as Cersei knelt, bowing her head piously. Lift your lamp to light Jaime's way back to me, she prayed to the gilded statue of a bent old woman. And grant me your wisdom. The queen would need all her wits for the days ahead, and the Crone's patience besides. Cersei was well used to waiting, she had waited half her life to step out of men's shadows and into the sun; she could bear a few days of shade before she returned to her proper place.
When her prayers were done, the queen broke fast, then bathed. She had time to enjoy a long, hot soak before she dressed; the small council did not meet after ninth hour, when the lords descended upon the royal sept to pray to the Father Above. Tommen would be with them, guarded by Ser Addam Marbrand, whose devotion to his king was unmatched, and by Ser Daemon Sand, who was so skilled one could almost forget he was Dornish. Ser Boros Blount held the drawbridge to Maegor's Holdfast, as usual; the stout blowhard was useless for much else.
It was Ser Lyn Corbray who escorted the queen to the small council chambers to await her counselors. Ser Lyn was a handsome, deadly man, the most dangerous sword of the Kingsguard, just like Ser Mandon Moore before him. The queen could still recall the last time she saw Ser Mandon, his white cloak flapping in the wind as she bade him keep Tyrion as safe as her brother had kept her, the knight's eyes flicking to the plaster cast hidden within her sleeve.
Lord Randyll Tarly was the first of her counselors to arrive, as usual. The queen regent had chosen her lord hand well; he wasted as little time as possible upon prayer, just like Lord Tywin. If she squinted there was even a slight resemblance in the lean frame, the bald head, the cold eyes and thin lips that rarely smiled. Lord Randyll was a man of action, a man as stern and unyielding as valyrian steel. Knowing he could not be beguiled, the queen greeted him as she would her lord father, with plain courtesy, and a compliment of his son Dickon's ability in the yard.
The rest of her counselors, though, they wanted to be welcomed with charm, and the queen obliged, all smiles. Let them think her beautiful and modest, let them think her head was filled with nothing but thoughts of the grand masked ball she was planning for Tommen's name day at the end of fifth moon, scant weeks away.
"Your Grace looks more beautiful every day," Mace Tyrell said as he kissed her hand. "The Mother's white suits you well."
Cersei gave him a winning smile. Her gown was ivory samite, her dagged sleeves slashed with cloth-of-gold. Let him think her the Mother; when she looked in her mirror, she saw Jaime, elegant in the pale raiment of the Kingsguard. White suited both twins well, but not so well as the crimson and gold she would wear when this farce was done.
Her smile turned sly when Prince Oberyn Martell came to pay his respects, his dark eyes lingering on her bosom, his lips lingering on her hand just a touch too long to be proper. He was desperate to bed her, she knew. Not that she would condescend to suffer the Dornishman's attentions; she had no appetite for the leavings of countless women and at least a few men. Still, his lust made him a useful ally during council.
Lord Tybolt Crakehall loomed over her next, as brawny as the boar of his sigil, and as thick-witted. She much preferred his company to that of Lord Mathis Rowan, who had resigned his council seat soon after the king's wedding. Thoughtful of him, to allow her the opportunity to replace one of Tyrell's bannermen with one of her own, especially with Lord Paxter Redwyne soon to return from the Reach.
When Redwyne returned, Aurane Waters would no longer be her lord admiral. The bastard of Driftmark knew it too; his greeting was courteous, but cold. Most thought Waters sulked at the thought of losing his council seat, but the queen knew better. His sulk had begun the day she banished him from her bed, sick of pretending he was Jaime, and weary of his constant whining for more rewards.
Waters spent gold as soon as it was in his hand, and then came begging for more. She had offered him one last chance, promising he would return to favor if he bedded Margaery Tyrell, but placing him in the chambers closest to Ser Loras had proved useless. His creditors were demanding payment; already one had sent a sellsword to collect. Sadly, Waters had slain the sellsword, rather than the other way around.
Inconsiderate wretch, but his time would come soon enough. She must remember to have Qyburn send another sellsword, she'd forgotten to mention it to him when they spoke this morning. It must be done soon, before Waters decided to start slandering the queen's good name. Or perhaps some unhappy accident would serve; Qyburn could work wonders.
And horrors, she thought as Lord Gyles Rosby dragged dry lips across her hand. His cough was long gone, but powder could not entirely hide that her master of coin was grey as a corpse, nor could perfume entirely conceal the stink that clung to him. She would need a new master of coin soon; this one had outlived his usefulness.
The same was true of Pycelle. The doddering old worm's incompetence had let Uncle Kevan die; it was a pity his health remained so good. No, that is ungenerous, the queen thought as he kissed her ring. Pycelle had seen to Jon Arryn, after all, and when he passed the Citadel was like to send her some Tyrell lickspittle. But even the trial of enduring Pycelle could not shake her good humor, not with so much to look forward to. The queen nearly brimmed over with cheer as she let Varys simper at her before gliding to his seat, lavender robes billowing behind him.
"Shall we begin with the Faith?" Tommen asked. Her son wore his crown of golden antlers, studded with black diamonds; his doublet was velvet, gold slashed with black. His breeches were black too, save for the hems. Those were dusted with cat hair from Ser Pounce, who curled beneath the king's chair.
Spending time with Dickon Tarly might be necessary to keep her son away from his new wife, but it had also resulted in a streak of willfullness the queen misliked. First he commanded that beets never grace the royal table; next he had asked to be the one who opened small council meetings. Cersei had allowed it, if only to keep Randyll Tarly from thinking too highly of himself on days when the queen did not attend.
"The Westerlands," the queen corrected gently. "Your Grace must see to his own people first."
Tommen's brow furrowed, but he hesitated only a moment before turning to Lord Crakehall. "My good Lord Tybolt, what news?"
The Westerlands remained in turmoil, thanks to the simpleminded rabble who had chosen treason over faithfulness. Lord Mordryd Lydden was calling the banners to Deep Den to assist him in putting down the revolts; Lord Tybolt was rather disappointed he would not be joining the fray. Crakehall had brought a small host to King's Landing, and Lord Mordryd thought it prudent to keep them there to protect the royal family.
A thoughtful man, Lord Lydden. It would be a pity if the rebels slew him, but the queen could not spare a man of her own blood for the task. After a mob murdered her castellan of Casterly Rock, Ser Damion Lannister, and his son Ser Lucion, her cousins through her mother Lady Joanna, the queen was finding herself rather short on dependable kinsmen.
Lord Tywin's three brothers had only sired four sons. Tyrek, the son of her Uncle Tygett, had vanished during the bread riots, never to be seen again. As Uncle Kevan's eldest son Lancel had died during the Battle of the Blackwater, that left only the twins, Willem and Martyn. Oh, and Aunt Genna and her appalling half-Frey sons and grandsons. All of them were safe at Casterly Rock, with Ser Willem reluctantly serving as her new castellan.
"It is grievous, the losses Your Grace has suffered," Lord Mace said to Tommen. "It will be a happy day when you have children of your own."
"A joyous day indeed," Cersei said merrily, ignoring the urge to wipe the smirk from the Fat Flower's face. "Though Willem and Martyn will be wed soon enough, and fill the Rock with their children."
She would have to ask Aunt Genna to select suitable brides, maids of high birth who were fertile, loyal, and quiet. There should be plenty to choose from, with so many knights and lords killed during the War of Five Kings and in these irritating uprisings. As it happened, the uprising in Oldtown was the next order of business.
"A misunderstanding, surely," Lord Mace blustered. "Though not one which may be resolved by raven. An envoy, though, might bring about a reconciliation."
Cersei allowed herself a gentle laugh. "My lord makes it sound so easily done. As master of laws, surely you would be best suited to explain why they have misread the laws of the Faith and thereby caused this unfortunate quarrel."
"Your Grace is too kind," Mace chuckled. "Patient, too, and wise. How could I be better fitted to take up this burden than our beloved queen regent?"
And leave Tommen helpless in your grasp?
"Perhaps," Cersei allowed. "My burdens here are so heavy, though. And there is the king's thirteenth name day to consider." She gave Tommen an affectionate smile. "I can hardly abandon my son just before his special day; we have all worked so hard to ensure the masked ball shall be a celebration to remember."
"After His Grace's nameday, then," Mace urged.
For a few moments the queen let him sweat, frowning as if in contemplation.
"Yes," she finally said, noting the Fat Flower's look of deep satisfaction. The thought of her leaving the city might please him, but was that all it was? "Yes, I see it is the will of the Mother that I mend this disharmony."
From there business moved on to the rest of the Reach. Lord Mace was pleased to remind the council of his new grandson at Brightwater Keep, the first child of Lord Garlan Tyrell and his wife. Mace might sigh over regretting that his duties prevented a visit, but she was not fooled. The man would soon perish than abandon his council seat, even temporarily.
"Lord Redwyne is sure the ironborn remain on Pyke?" Lord Randyll said sharply.
"Quite sure," said Mace. "As I said they would, now that Paxter has thrashed them."
"Good. Let them stay there; winter will take them soon enough."
"Too true," the queen agreed.
Better to keep her thirty new dromonds in Blackwater Bay, not risk sending them off under Aurane Waters. He might try to take Pyke and make himself its new lord, or he might sail off to parts unknown. His sailors were the scum of Flea Bottom; when she had disposed of Waters, she would need to find some hardened captain to whip them into shape.
If only there were two of Lord Randyll, and one of them was a sailor, she thought as she enjoyed the sight of Lord Mace being lectured by his own bannerman. The talk had turned to that of the proper way to deal with unruly smallfolk, a subject upon which both men had decidedly different opinions.
Her master of laws would have coddled the ungrateful wretches, but her lord hand was made of sterner stuff. Most of the queen's new edicts were his ideas. Tarly had accepted few of her suggestions, and then only after she framed them as wisdom she had once heard from Lord Tywin. Not that the edicts required many changes; they were of the same mind on the importance of law and order.
There was little news from Dorne. Princess Arianne now had a second babe at her breast, another girl. There were reports of minor troubles with the smallfolk, but Prince Oberyn assured her that the new edicts were proving most effective in subduing them.
Prince Oberyn was growing quite bored with his council seat. So bored, in fact, that he was vaguely threatening to abandon it so he might go whoring and adventuring as he had in his youth. Sour grapes, no doubt. He must have realized he would never bed the queen, and grown tired of bedding Ser Daemon Sand and Lady Cedra Santagar. Little though she liked the Dornish, the queen appreciated the conceited airs which made them disregard the value of a seat at court, and the ear of the Iron Throne. So long as Dorne kept paying taxes, all was well.
The Stormlands were less obliging. Displeased with Lord Mace's judgments during his time there, the queen had sent ravens summoning half of them to court so she might hear their complaints. Not satisfied with killing each other on their own lands, some had taken to brawling within the Red Keep. Varys reported that last night Red Ronnet Connington had broken the arm of some Cafferen knight who offended him; now Lord Cafferen was baying for blood.
"Let him keep baying," the queen sighed, resisting the urge to laugh. Instead she let her shoulders droop, as though saddened by such discord. "I am sure Ser Ronnet had his reasons."
If Cafferen retaliated, so be it. Both Connington and Cafferen had supported first Renly, then Stannis. Lord Tywin might have welcomed them back to the king's peace, but it was an insult Cersei had not forgotten. Nor did she forget that both houses had once raised their banners for Aerys Targaryen; even now they might plot to join his daughter Daenerys should she ever come west. Better that they fight each other.
To her delight, the eunuch reported that Vale lords were also fighting amongst themselves. While Lysa Arryn and her feeble son remained trapped atop their mountain, the lords down below argued as to how they might rescue their lord and the foster siblings, who came from the noblest houses of the Vale. Even better, the mountain clans were descending from theirs to raid the folk who dwelled in the warmer lands below. How thoughtful of Tyrion, to arm his savages with steel, and of Lord Tywin, to exile them from the city when they had outlived their usefulness.
And have you outlived your usefulness, my lord? she wondered as she watched Varys shuffle through his papers. Qyburn had realized her uncle had been poisoned; how had Varys not overheard some warning of what Tyrell was up to?
The eunuch claimed to know everything that happened within the Red Keep, but it was not so. There were ways to avoid his little birds; was that what Tyrell had done, or had Varys wanted her uncle to die? Regardless, she was having Qyburn gather his own whispers now, carefully, so she might see if the eunuch was playing her false. What secrets hid behind those pale eyes, whose colors changed in every light, seeming grey, then blue, sometimes even purple?
"The waters of the Bite and the Shivering Sea remain most treacherous," the eunuch was saying. "There are always captains willing to brave perilous winter seas for the promise of gold, but with so many ships lost..."
"The lords of the Vale will not be sailing from Gulltown to White Harbor at their leisure, not with drowning so likely," said Lord Randyll. "Nor, I think, will they make the long journey to Winterfell by road. Perhaps the bite of winter will help them reconsider swearing fealty to Stark."
"We can only hope," drawled Prince Oberyn.
Then there were the reports from further north. More nonsense about Others and wights and snarks and grumkins. The queen did not doubt Stannis Baratheon's red priestess had attempted some foul sorcery, but she refused to acknowledge the rest of the tedious prattle which Varys insisted on bringing to their attention. Oddly, his voice sounded deeper when he spoke of the Wall, and she could have sworn there was fear hiding behind his eyes.
The rest of the council did not share his concern, nor did the court. Lord Randyll thought it some trap to lure their armies north to be slaughtered, as did Lord Tybolt.
"Aye, northmen are treacherous," said the lord of Crakehall, as she had known he would. "They might be in the city even now, awaiting a chance to strike."
"Winter has already lasted over a year," Varys insisted. "And with a bitterness that is not natural, not this far south. The ground has been frozen for the past five moons, the snow drifts are as deep as a man's knee, and the Blackwater is choked with ice."
"The Blackwater froze solid in Aerys' day," Tarly said dismissively.
"My lord was misinformed," said Pycelle, stroking his ponderous chain. "I remember well, there was a crust of ice for a few days, thick enough for foolhardy children to walk across, but that was all."
"Imagine how foul the winter must be in the North," said Lord Mace. No doubt he was thinking of the profit to be made trading with Robb Stark, the grasping traitor.
"And in Braavos too, I imagine," said the queen. "Have you any new reports since the last?"
A fortnight past, the eunuch had informed her that he had finally discovered the whereabouts of Shireen Baratheon, last of her line. To the queen's amusement, rather than give the girl to Robb Stark, the boy's bastard brother had packed her off to Braavos, where she was hiding with the Onion Knight's wife and few surviving sons.
In her mercy, Cersei had decided to let the girl live. No one would be using such an ugly child to lay claim to Storm's End, even if she did live long enough to breed. Not that anyone would want to. The queen recalled the child being as ugly as her mother Selyse, even without the greyscale scars.
"Nothing new, Your Grace," the eunuch simpered. "The Iron Bank remains most wroth with the Iron Throne, but they have taken no action against the crown."
"Good. Inform me at once should there be any change," she told the eunuch.
The Braavosi were quite vexed with her refusal to pay the usury on the loans which she had taken out at the end of the old year. As soon as the gold was safe in the royal vaults, the queen had informed the Iron Bank that she would pay them when winter was over, and not before. Cersei required every golden dragon to build up her fleet, to pay for the goldcloaks and for sellswords, not to mention the expense of maintaining an elegant court.
To her annoyance, almost the entire council had been displeased with her decision. She had quelled most of their concerns by asking if they wished to pay the usury from their own coffers. Only Lord Randyll and Prince Oberyn had truly supported her, Lord Randyll because of how much gold was going to the royal army she had asked him to build, Prince Oberyn because he held a grudge against the Iron Bank from when he had lived in Braavos for a few years. And Meria, of course, but Meria supported every word that came out of the queen's mouth, especially when she drank with the queen of an evening.
"Your Grace," she had hiccuped. "Your Grace knows best, and should do as you please."
And so she had, and now the royal treasury had ample gold for her needs, and the only price was rude letters from the Iron Bank, whose envoys the queen refused to see. That, and the fretting of merchants who lacked the funds to pay the debts which the Iron Bank had called due. That was the merchants' own fault; they should not have taken loans they could not repay.
"One final matter," the queen said as the council drew to a close. "I have finally found the perfect master of horse for the royal stables. I have no doubt Lord Celtigar will prove equal to the task."
"I had not known Lord Ardrian was still alive," Aurane Waters said disdainfully. "He must be what, eighty?"
"Seventy," the queen informed him with a smile. "And still vigorous."
Not very vigorous, in truth, and as sour as a lemon, but Lord Celtigar was the one who proved greediest for the empty title, outbidding a dozen younger, poorer lords and knights. Cersei could not wait to see what sort of wealth men offered her when she announced her intention to appoint a master of revels.
"I'm sure he will do well," Tommen ventured, giving his mother an uncertain glance as the bells tolled twelve. "We should let my lady mother get to her prayers. I'm sure good Ser Balon could use them."
That provoked pious mumbling and nodding of heads, and on that note, Cersei took her leave.
Even bundled in furs, the walk from the small council chambers to the royal sept was not pleasant. The bitter wind tugged at her loose hair, and knocked her golden crown askew. When the queen reached the royal sept, she paused inside the door to tidy herself before she went in.
The royal sept was blessedly warm, thanks to the hearths which were always kept lit. They had to be; the royal sept had thinner walls than the other buildings in the Red Keep, and grew cold quickly. In most castles, the sept would be packed at the Hour of the Mother. Not here, though; Cersei was not one to suffer unwanted company, especially when she was on her knees. This place was hers, and no one was allowed to disturb her, save a counselor with urgent business.
The statue of the Mother looked down upon her from above the altar. Wrought from pale marble, she looked almost like a woman of flesh and blood, turned to stone by some witch's spell. Her hair was gilded, her eyes were pearl and emerald; in her delicate hands she bore three sprouting seeds.
Mother Above, have mercy upon Ser Balon Swann, the queen prayed. Ser Balon's mishandling of affairs at Duskendale had left him gravely injured, but thankfully not dead, praise the Seven. Lord Mace was quite keen to pin Jaime's cloak about his son Loras's shoulders; were Balon to perish in the next few weeks, she would be unable to refuse. But it would not come to that, she knew, the gods were with her.
When her prayers were done, it was time to ride through the city. Tommen was already ahorse, talking to Dickon Tarly whilst they awaited her, along with a heavy escort of goldcloaks and several Kingsguard. The queen had thought to find Lady Margaery with them; her absence was an unexpected pleasure, though it meant she could not torment the girl with barbed words.
The absence of her grasping rival only improved the queen's mood, and Cersei waved graciously as Tommen threw alms to the poor. When they drew nearer to the Great Sept, where the streets were busier, the queen even condescended to throw alms herself. It was how the game was played, after all. She could not win the love of the commons away from the insipid Tyrells, but she must give the mob their show.
The city smelled sweeter than she could ever recall. Small wonder, with fewer bodies to clutter it with their filth. The lord mayor believed that of the near half million living in the city when Robert died, perhaps four in ten had died of famine or from the bloody flux. It still ran rampant through the city; the pyromancers were burning corpses in the Dragonpit every few weeks, the towering green flames visible from atop the Red Keep, the wildfire as beautiful as it was perilous.
The bells were tolling three when they arrived at the Great Sept, where the queen would pray for the Hour of the Maiden. Whilst she was busy for a half hour, the king and his companions would enjoy a brief visit with His High Holiness. Luceon awaited them on the steps, resplendent in golden robes embroidered with swords of crimson silk, their pommels studded with rubies. No doubt the High Dwarf scorned such finery. Cersei imagined the fool went about barefoot in roughspun, with a beggar's bowl about his neck, to remind all men how lowly he was.
Such men were a groat a dozen. The queen saw plenty of them in the streets when they emerged to find it snowing. Most of the street preachers fell silent when they saw the king's banner, the Kingsguard gleaming in their white armor, but a few only shouted louder, yelling of the wrath of the gods and the ending of the world. Luckily, they could barely be heard, thanks to the other street preachers who were screaming over them, blaming the woes of the world on the demon worshipper Robb Starks and his vile followers. Qyburn did good work; every golden dragon she gave him was repaid threefold.
As they rode into the square at the center of the city, they paused to observe a troupe of mummers putting on a show. The Romance of Aemon and Naerys, yet again, she noted, pleased. They were finally growing sick of Strongspear the Squire, the absurd play about Ser Olyvar Sand and his duel with the Mountain to win the love of a moonstruck maid. To win the right to mount a little bitch, more like. She hoped the girl was suffering, wherever she was.
The queen would have banned Strongspear, if not for both Lord Mace and Prince Oberyn assuring her there was no treason in it. Cersei could not bear to suffer through the thing herself, not after Lord Mace waxed on at length about the role of the lily knight, the most gallant knight to ever live, who dubbed Strongspear at the end of the play. She supposed the playwright must have been well rewarded by the Tyrells for that bit of bootlicking.
Thankfully, the mad craze for Strongspear had yielded to shows of Aemon and Naerys, of Duncan and his Jenny, and various other romantic twaddle. Soon there would be a show about the life of the Great Lion; Cersei had found the best quill in the city to pen it. She would not have the mob forget Tywin's strength, nor his wealth, nor his power, all of which were now hers to wield as she saw fit. But a paltry mummer's show was nothing, nothing compared to the masked ball which the queen had planned for the end of fifth moon.
Over the next few weeks, she was consumed by preparations for Tommen's thirteenth nameday. There would be no jousts or mêlées, not with the weather so rotten, but there would be every other sort of entertainment imaginable. Staged duels and battles indoors, with lords dressed as gallants from the Age of Heroes, singers and mummers, jugglers and tumblers, elaborate banquets and sumptuous feasts, the celebrations were to last for a full week.
The crowning glory, though, was to be the masked ball which opened the festivities.
Ever since the king's wedding, every lord and lady of note had been readying themselves for the shows which they were to put on in honor of the king. Cersei had thought it fitting that there be four shows, one for each of the fiefs which had remained loyal to King Tommen.
The lords of the Reach were to present a show about the life of Garth Greenhand. Lord Mace was to play Garth himself, Lady Margaery was to be Maris the Maid, and Ser Loras was to be Gilbert of the Vines. Rather obvious choices; the queen thought. Maris was the ancestor of their mother Alerie Hightower, and their grandmother Olenna Redwyne was descended from Gilbert, a rather unimpressive fellow who supposedly taught men how to make wine. Cersei had laughed until she cried when Meria Sand informed her that Ser Loras had contrived to somehow make the discovery of wine the result of a gallant duel between Gilbert and a giant.
Of course, the Dornish were intent on outshining their rivals. Their show was to be of Nymeria, played by Lady Blackmont, with the Red Viper as Mors Martell, and the rest of the Dornish playing supporting roles. As most of them were greybeards, she could only hope their performance would be sadly lacking when it came to staging a pitched battle.
The rehearsals for Durran Godsgrief were a battle, or so she heard. The stormlords were spending more time fighting with each other than with the sea god and wind goddess who had opposed Durran after he stole their daughter Elenei. Red Ronnet Connington had won the right to play Durran, after dueling with a Wylde and a Mertyn to settle the matter. His Elenei was played by a maid of House Estermont, until she was caught in bed with a singer and replaced with a maid of House Mertyn, who then fell from her horse, broke her ankle, and was replaced by a maid from House Cafferen.
It was a pity no one would get to see the plays, the queen thought, smirking. Especially the one about Lann the Clever, with Tommen in the lead role. He was learning his lines quite diligently, though his mother would have been the better choice. Cersei was the proud legacy of Lann's ancient line, as cunning as her forebear, if not moreso. Someday women would fight for the chance to play Queen Cersei in mummer's shows, and her grateful descendants would build shrines in her name.
In the meantime, the queen regent must be certain all things were ready for the night of the masked ball. Singers must be chosen, menus planned, the decorations prepared and arranged.
Lord Mace had objected to the use of the Queen's Ballroom, rather than the Small Hall or the throne room, but she had overcome his doubts. A masked ball should be intimate, the queen had told him, the attendance limited to the highest of lords and ladies. The Queen's Ballroom might only seat a hundred, but it was the most beautiful of the halls in the Red Keep. Silver mirrors backed every wall sconce, drowning the room in light, the walls were richly carved wood, the south wall lined with exquisite stained glass windows. True, the guests would be packed in tightly, but that was for the best, so that young ladies and their admirers could not slip away unnoticed.
Unfortunately, the intimate size of the queen's ballroom also made it impossible for Cersei to escape the High Septon when he descended upon her one afternoon, his cloth-of-gold robes quite disheveled. Apparently the commons had somehow learnt that Luceon was born a Frey, and now he could not leave the Great Sept without being jeered at, even accosted by the boldest of beggars.
"And," Luceon said, his chest heaving, as if he'd run to the Red Keep, "the street preachers are blaming the cold and snow upon the wrath of the gods. They say the Seven are angry, that the Others have come again—"
"Really, Luceon," the queen tsked, watching as a group of serving men rearranged chairs and tables to her liking. Must she do everything herself? "If you dare not ride out openly, then use a litter. Ask Ser Jacelyn Bywater for a larger escort of goldcloaks, and if the street preachers slander you, why, that is why we have the black cells, and Lord Confessor Qyburn."
"I suppose Your Grace is right." Luceon hesitated. "But—"
"Do not fret yourself overmuch, Your High Holiness," the queen smiled. "The mob shall soon forget all about it, I promise you; trust in the Mother Above, and all will be well."
Really, it was the mother below who would be distracting the mob from their hatred of Freys, but the queen could hardly tell him that. Discretion was of the utmost importance, she had learned that at her father's knee.
A few days later, another visitor interrupted her whilst she was hearing a troupe of musicians. Lord Tarly did not bring whining complaints, he brought a boar that he had slaughtered whilst hunting in the kingswood with the other lords of the Reach.
"I hear it was a vicious battle," the queen said, lowering her eyes and calling a blush to her cheeks. "The largest boar ever seen, or so His Grace told me." Tommen had shared the whole story over luncheon, having heard it from Dickon Tarly in the yard that morning.
"A monstrous boar, Your Grace," Lord Randyll agreed. "Lord Mace declared it impossible to slay, and would have let it be. I was not so easily daunted." He did not smile, but she could see the sated bloodlust in his eyes.
The queen stepped a little closer to her lord hand, pretending she could not hear him over the sound of pipes and fiddles.
"They say the blood of House Tarly is the fiercest in the Reach," Cersei whispered. "Sometimes... no, I should not say such a thing, not of our good master of laws."
Lord Randyll's eyes glittered, hard as stone. "Your Grace?"
The queen looked about; no one else was standing near.
"My lord... I fear Lord Mace is not the man I once thought. What if Lady Margaery's children share her father's blood? The Iron Throne devours the unworthy; I would that my grandchildren shared your blood, rather than his. I hear your daughters are sweet girls, modest, all that a mother should want for her son. Oh, if only I had not been trapped by my lord father's promises to Highgarden..."
"The king is wedded." Lord Tarly's face was a bloodless mask, but there was a hint of something in his voice, a hunger.
"But not bedded," the queen said softly. "That is why I have them guarded and kept apart at night, I could not— Lady Margaery is so much older than Tommen, past twenty now, with a woman's lusts. I would wager my son's life that she is no maid, yet I cannot prove it. Worse, I fear Lord Mace suspects I know of her guilt, and fears the day I at last have proof enough to set her aside, so Tommen may wed a worthier maid."
For a long moment Lord Tarly was silent. Had she dared too much?
"They say tomorrow's weather will be fine for hawking," her lord hand finally said. "Though too cold for Lord Mace to stir out of doors."
"The cold is nothing," the queen smiled, intrigued. "I would be pleased to accompany you, my lord."
Indeed, the cold the next day troubled the queen little and less, so focused was she on her conversation with Lord Tarly. It was well worth losing a day of preparations, which she left in Meria's capable hands. She would miss the bastard girl when she left court; Meria had been hinting at her need to secure a rich husband before she grew too old to attract one with her wiles. Of course, there were always more ladies eager for the queen's favor, but rarely did one find such a useful puppet.
Mace Tyrell seemed to think the queen regent his puppet. He was always dropping in on her, to gloat and share usless tidbits from the small council meetings she was missing. The queen ignored most of them, content to know that Tommen was behaving himself in her absence. Oh, he was trying to propose his own ideas, no doubt at Lady Margaery's behest, but Lord Tarly was brusquely ignoring them, as he should. Lord Mace's interruptions would have annoyed her, if not for the opportunity they proved to charm and tease and jest with a man ignorant to his danger.
"I am sure the masked ball shall be the most magnificent ever held, Your Grace," Lord Mace said agreeably, as they practiced the dance which they would perform together. For all his size, Tyrell was surprisingly light on his feet.
"My lord is too kind," Cersei demurred.
"And when the week of revels is over, Your Grace takes ship to Oldtown?"
"Of course," the queen gave him a dazzling smile.
"I cannot wait."
The trumpets sounded the final measures of the dance, and Cersei spun away, allowing herself a breathless laugh. Oh, Mace Tyrell was a dangerous foe, and no mistake. The patricians and commons alike toasted his generosity; his household guard were as skilled as they were loyal, ready to defend him from hidden knives, just as tasters defended him from poison.
But Tyrell was not so invulnerable as he wished to appear. Nor was he fool enough to openly reveal his plans as Eddard Stark once had when he told her to flee Robert's wrath, never imagining her own. Even so, it did not matter. Cersei had known Tyrell meant her harm long before Lord Tarly asked her to go hunting.
A motherhouse on the outskirts of Oldtown was the fate Tyrell had planned for her, or so Lord Tarly had surmised from Mace's careless blustering. The breach with the Faith would be mended, the High Septon of the Starry Sept would give up his crystal crown, and the queen would retire to a motherhouse, content with the good work she had done.
Or so Lord Mace would tell the world when he declared himself Lord Regent. A tidy story, for such vile treachery. She wondered how many shriveled septas he thought would be needed to seize a lioness; at least a dozen, if not more. Did he really think a motherhouse's walls could contain her long, when she had her wits about her, sharp as Jaime's sword?
She did not need Lord Tarly's blunt offers of assistance. Cersei had pretended she could not believe such infamy of Lord Mace, and asked Lord Tarly to do nothing, not until after the week of revelry. Of course, he was quite right to keep his men close at hand, in case of unexpected treachery. Lord Randyll already had a small host in the city, the banners he'd called to deal with the mess in Duskendale.
Unlike Duskendale, the masked ball would run as smoothly as summer silk. Cersei had her hands full making the final preparations, giddy as a girl as Tommen's name day drew ever closer. Even Pycelle pestering her with ravens from Stokeworth, where a raving Lady Tanda claimed to have seen thousands of peasants on the kingsroad, could not dull her glow. She ordered Pycelle to send a raven to Rosby, just in case, then returned to more important business. The cook's dainties must be nibbled and approved, exotic wines tasted to ensure they were worthy of the occasion. Just a taste, of course, the queen required a clear head.
Her thrice daily prayers in the royal sept were the only time Cersei had to herself. The day before the masked ball, Qyburn joined her at the Hour of the Crone, slipping in after she sent the septa away so she might pray in holy solitude. The lord confessor's robes were white velvet, decorated with whorls of gold, as if he were some secret Kingsguard who dealt in whispers rather than steel.
"All is ready, Your Grace," the lord confessor said as he knelt beside her, bowing his head as if in prayer.
"You are sure?"
At Tommen's behest, the commons were to be let into the outer yard of the Red Keep, to be given bread and beer and the leftover delicacies from the feast. Cersei had approved of the notion, and suggested that they also be permitted into the middle yard. The red cloaks were rather nervous about it. From the middle yard, it would be all too easy for some wayward peasant to reach the serpentine steps, then the lower bailey, perhaps even the drawbridge to Maegor's itself.
"I am sure," the old man said. Not too old, though; Qyburn's hair was grey, not white, his words as deft as his hands. "I have gone amongst the red cloaks as you wished, Your Grace, and chosen those which shall guard the gatehouse, the steps, and Maegor's Holdfast itself. The best of them shall guard the king, of course."
"Of course," the queen smiled. "Your faithful service shall be well rewarded, as always. The goldcloaks have another dozen traitors for your keeping."
Qyburn bowed his head. "Your Grace is too generous. One other matter, if it please you? I have at last secured an agent in Gulltown, and there are whispers from Braavos."
"Oh?"
Qyburn withdrew a slip of parchment from his voluminous sleeves. "The Iron Bank has at last bestirred themselves against Your Grace. A treasure fleet departed Braavos at the end of fourth moon, her sails set for Meereen."
"Meereen?" The queen said, dumbfounded. "Lord Varys said nothing—"
The knowledge struck her like a bolt of lightning. How many times had the eunuch bade her ignore the threat of Daenerys Targaryen? For years he had spoken of a Volantene invasion that never transpired, then suddenly Volantis was burnt to the ground. Not by dragons, though, the eunuch had assured the council, showing them the pitiful skulls of the last dragons, malformed and tiny. Yet Aurane Waters said the sailors had seen full grown dragons who battled over Volantis...
And it was Varys who brought me to father.
Lord Tywin had summoned her over some urgent business, the eunuch had said, but why would her lord father send Varys to fetch her, rather than a red cloak? When they found the body lying naked over his desk, the solar reeking of nightsoil, Varys had quivered as he always did, but was that some mummer's trick? Strange enough that Lord Tywin should be pierced through the heart by some sorcerer's shadow, but that her Jaime should vanish from the White Sword Tower without a trace, with not a whisper of him for years... and then Cersei knew, she knew who held her twin captive, and how Jaime had come into her power.
The day of the masked ball dawned bitter cold. Dark clouds shrouded the world, the wind cutting like a knife as Cersei made her way to the sept for the Hour of the Mother. She was escorted by Ser Lyn Corbray. The tall knight wore a cloak of pured miniver clasped at his neck; the valyrian steel sword Lady Forlorn rode at his hip, thirsty as ever for blood.
No one was out of doors, too busy bathing and dressing for the masked ball. No one else, save Varys. His soft slippers made no sound on the stone floor of the sept as he came to her at the altar of the Mother, his lilac robes rustling as he knelt.
"Your Grace?" He asked, obsequious as ever.
The eunuch's face was a powdered mask. If he noticed that the septa was gone, or that Ser Lyn stood inside the door, he gave no sign. The queen ignored him, keeping her head bowed in prayer. Mother, defend me, and defend sweet Tommen from these false friends. It was so hard not to smile, but the queen managed it, keeping her long silence whilst the eunuch tried not to fidget.
"The bells will soon toll one," Varys said at last. Through the stained glass windows she could see the snow beginning to fall. "Surely the masked ball is more important than a mere master of whispers."
"Many things are more important than you are," Cersei agreed. "A treasure fleet of the Iron Bank bound for Meereen, for instance."
Varys opened his mouth, but when she held up her hand, he closed it. His eyes gleamed purple beneath pale golden eyebrows; she could almost see his thoughts racing. Too late, my lord.
"I am disappointed in you, Lord Varys," she tsked. "They say one should never underestimate a eunuch, but to underestimate a queen is even more foolish. Tell me, which Targaryen managed to sire a bastard in secret?"
"I was trueborn," the eunuch said, his voice different somehow. "And—"
"Oh," the queen sighed as she rose to her feet. "I beg your pardon; I forgot that I don't care. Ser Lyn, if you would?"
Varys' eyes widened as he realized there was nowhere to run. His powdered fingers grabbed for the queen, as if to use her as a shield. Too late again. Cersei was already halfway across the sept by the time Ser Lyn drove his sword deep into the eunuch's gut.
When the eunuch finally finished dying, there was blood everywhere, except on her pale skirts. She should have had Ser Lyn snap his neck, but that would be depriving the Kingsguard of his sport. As the bells tolled one, there was a soft knock at the door, and Qyburn and his assistants entered.
"Clean this up at once," the queen ordered as one of the men handed Ser Lyn a cloth to wipe his blade. "This evening must go perfectly, do you understand?"
"Of course, Your Grace," the men murmured as one.
"We shall need the head, for later," the queen told Qyburn. "Cut out the tongue, and pickle it for display." One could not always take trophies, alas, but this was one she would treasure.
The queen felt as if she was floating on air as she bathed and dressed for the ball. Her maids shared her good humor, laughing and giggling as they scrubbed her, gasping with awe when it came time to lace the queen into her first gown of the evening.
It was the loveliest, costliest gown Cersei had ever had. Smallclothes of deep crimson silk clung to her like a lover, though they were concealed beneath a shift of ivory cashmere. The gown was ivory too, plush velvet heavily embroidered with the Mother's seeds and sprouts worked in golden thread. Her long dagged sleeves were trimmed with ermine; her train was ten feet long, the lining made of crimson silk, as though her steps left a trail of blood.
The neckline was modest, the better to draw the eye to her carcanet. The golden necklace boasted seven fiery teardrop rubies, set amongst dozens of small white diamonds. Her earrings matched, as did her crown and her narrow mask. Others might find it amusing to conceal their faces and feign ignorance as to whom they spoke, but she would have no man wondering as to the identity of the lady who outshone all others.
With Ser Boros Blount and Ser Daemon Sand guarding the bridge to Maegor's Holdfast, it was Ser Lyn Corbray who had the honor of escorting the queen from her apartments to the ballroom below. The musicians in the gallery filled the air with sweet music as the queen entered, having arrived late, the better to display her peerless beauty.
It took rather a while for the queen to make her way through the crush of adoring courtiers, starting with those from the Westerlands. The crowd had to part to let her pass, with her ladies following after her to carry her train. Of course, that did not stop lords and ladies from coming up to her to chatter over her grand entrance.
The Dornish accosted her next. Lord Dagos Manwoody and his wife Corinna, both in their seventies, vowed they had never seen such a sight. Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck agreed, pressing gallant kisses to the queen's hand, before apologizing for the absence of Lord Tremond Gargalen, still dressing, and of Prince Oberyn Martell, who had gone to speak with Ser Daemon Sand.
When the Tyrells came to pay their respects, Cersei noted to her annoyance that their costumes were almost as lavish as her own. Lord Mace was resplendent in velvet the same color as the many, many emeralds on his golden mask; the sleeves of his doublet were slashed with cloth-of-gold. Lady Margaery's costume was even more elaborate; some cunning smith had fashioned vines which wrapped about her arms and bodice, with delicate golden roses set amongst steel thorns. Ser Loras was, for once, the least flamboyantly dressed; his costume was a green velvet surcoat over steel chainmail washed with gold, with a sword at his hip and a laugh on his lips.
"Your Grace is a vision of loveliness," Meria Sand gushed, once the Tyrells finished their courtesies and glided away. More compliments followed as the girl paid the queen her due, though her last remark was rather unexpected. "Your Grace, if I may... my lord father is quite nervous about the commons being allowed in the keep."
"Prince Oberyn should rest easy," the queen laughed, brushing a kiss to the girl's cheek. "I trust my gallant Kingsguard and my puissant red cloaks, not to mention the many fine warriors within the ballroom." Almost all of whom did not have swords, just as she had hoped.
As a bastard, Meria could not wear the scarlet and orange of House Martell. Her gown was green silk embroidered with sunflowers of yellow silk, not costly golden thread, and the seeds of each sunflower were made from jet, rather than onyx or diamonds. She was supposed to be some maid of Dornish legend who suffered many trials to wed her lover. Ysabel the Glad or some such; Cersei had not been paying attention.
The queen did note that the girl's bosom was half out, as were those of most ladies in the hall. Cersei had encouraged daring necklines; the men would be preoccupied all evening, thanks to the little sluts' unwitting assistance.
Not that every man could be so easily distracted. Lord Gyles Rosby would not have noticed if every lady in the room arrived naked as her name day. The queen had set Meria Sand to the task of handling his costume, knowing he would not see to it himself. Though he held a cup of sour red wine, he barely sipped at it unless reminded. Lord Gyles had served well enough as master of coin, but she would be glad of the chance to replace him.
The Stormlords descended upon the queen last, all desperate to curry favor. There was Lord Philip Foote of Nightsong, fresh from his victory against the Selmys of Harvest Hall. There were several Estermonts, eager to claim kinship, a Wylde and a Mertyn, both eager to claim lands from the Penroses. Last came Lord Cafferen, red faced and sour, half his attention on his maiden daughter, who was on the arm of a smirking Red Ronnet Connington. Red Ronnet already wore his Durran Godsgrief costume; the black wig was so absurd atop his ginger hair that the queen had to suppress a fit of laughter.
"I do not see Lady Tanda," Lord Cafferen grumbled, after passing a few words with the vacant Lord Gyles. "Was she not expected to attend?"
"You know how the Stokeworths are," the queen smiled. "I dare say she will arrive in splendor upon the morrow, and weep to have missed this evening's festivities."
"Hmph," Lord Cafferen grumbled. "Well, at least the eunuch isn't skulking about; I despise the stench of his perfume."
Cersei furrowed her brow, glancing about the ballroom as if perplexed. "Why, you are quite right, my lord. How odd. He did mention a meeting with an informant, something about northmen in the city? Nothing to fret about, I'm sure."
Qyburn's absence went unremarked, as she had hoped. Eventually someone might start to wonder where the lord confessor was, but that was no matter. Nor did anyone remark on the absence of Aurane Waters, who had not merited an invitation. No doubt he was sulking in his chamber in the Maidenvault.
She found Tommen waiting for her atop the dais, surrounded by Estermonts heaping praise upon his costume. The queen had wanted her son dressed in Warrior's crimson with Baratheon gold, but he had resisted her. Instead he wore gold velvet, slashed with Baratheon black. His doublet was covered in prancing black stags, though she had insisted on the addition of lions crouching hidden in the grass. She had also insisted on the mask, an elaborate likeness of a golden stag which covered her son from crown to chin.
"It's too heavy, mother," Tommen huffed as she took her seat beside him, the Estermont girls scattering to their seats beneath the dais. "I can barely see."
"But everyone can see you, and is in awe of your splendor," the queen told him, picking a cat hair off his doublet. She lowered her voice as she glanced up at Ser Addam Marbrand, who stood behind the king. "Is Pate ready?"
"Yes, Your Grace," the Kingsguard said, torchlight shining off his copper hair. Unlike the rest of the crowd, he wore his usual garb of a white cloak over white plate. "Though why you should need the whipping boy—"
"Call it a mother's intuition," the queen said, cutting him off as she saw Lady Margaery draw near the dais. She softened her words with a smile. "I daresay I am being silly; you are good to humor me."
Trumpets blared as soon as Lady Margaery took her seat beside the king. Tommen welcomed the revelers in a clear strong voice, with only a few brief cracks to show his youth. Then it was time for the banquet to begin, the tables groaning beneath course after course of magnificent food.
Cersei sent all the choicest dishes straight to Lord Mace, who sat beside his insipid daughter. Let him stuff his belly; men were always slower of body and of mind when they were full. The queen did taste the wines, though only a sip of each before she had them taken away. The Tyroshi pear brandy was as sweet as her humor, the Pentoshi amber wine deep and rich as the mines of Casterly Rock. There was fire wine from Myr and apricot wine from Norvos, and a priceless vintage of golden wine from the Jade Sea which was so peerless she had a servant take the cup to her rooms for later, along with what was left of the flagon.
Meria, who served as her cupbearer, was less prudent. By the time came for the sweet, she was giggling and cooing over the queen's shoulder, whispering witty barbs over the costumes of the courtiers. Lord Cafferen was far too fat to play the fawn of his sigil, his daughter Roelle far too bold as she made eyes at Red Ronnet. The Knight of Griffin's Roost did not return her gaze, too busy watching the pair of fawns striving to escape her bodice.
A troupe of tumblers entertained the revelers on the floor whilst those on the dais went their separate ways. Tommen and Margaery descended into the crowd, closely followed by Ser Addam Mabrand, whilst Cersei and Lord Mace slipped away to change into their dance costumes, attended by the lords and ladies who would also take part in the dance. Wooden screens were set up at the end of the hall behind the raised platform which would serve as a stage; in one corner the lords changed, in the other, the ladies.
Thankfully, a surfeit of wine had not dulled Meria's senses entirely, and the bastard proved equal to the task of supervising the maids who helped the queen out of her ivory velvet gown. The queen would miss her train, but she could hardly dance with it. For the dance she wore a white kirtle that displayed her shapely hipes, with a scooped neckline that bared the top of her snowy bosom.
"I'm sure Your Grace will be light as a feather," Meria said as she checked the laces and draped a golden veil over the queen's hair, pinning into carefully into place.
"Why, I could almost fly." The queen laughed, almost giddy for the dance to start. Cersei examined her reflection in her gilded hand mirror; her cheeks were roses, her eyes wildfire. "Do stay close, it would be a shame were anything to happen to you."
"Your Grace?" The girl asked, puzzled.
In answer, Cersei patted her cheek, then pressed a kiss to her brow. "Oh, nothing, sweet girl. Enjoy the show; it shall be talked of for years to come."
Meria's brown cheeks seemed almost to blush; her eyes widened. For a moment the queen was confused, until the girl pressed a hand to her mouth before bolting in the direction of the chamber pots at the other end of the hall near the doors. The queen graciously let her go; it was time for the dance to begin.
Other nobles might act or sing like prancing jackaknapes, but the queen was above such absurdity. Cersei was no mummer, no wet nurse to tell stories by the hearth. She was the Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, and if she must put on a show, the dance was the only art worthy of her attention.
Lord Mace had not objected to dancing, nor to the style of dance, but they had rather more difficulty choosing their theme. The queen regent proposed that they should portray Truth and Humility; the master of laws proposed that they should portray Peace and Plenty. Unable to agree, they split the difference.
With Cersei's white kirtle, golden veil, and golden mirror, she was the very image of Truth herself. Lord Mace came in the guise of Plenty, his tunic sewn from cloth-of-gold with sheaves of wheat picked out in amber beads. In his hand he bore a golden scythe as if it were a king's scepter, as if he meant to cut her down, a chance that he would never have.
The stage bore a circular dais at its center, ringed with steps so one might ascend or descend from any place along its rim. Once Truth and Plenty were atop the dais, lords and ladies circled around them. Their costumes were far simpler, though still ornate. She espied Lord Tybolt Crakehall amongst the dancers, a broad grin on his broad face.
The queen would have preferred Lord Randyll Tarly, but the man would sooner cut off his own foot than take part in such a performance. Nor had he taken much care with his costume; the lord hand wore a helm instead of a mask, and plate armor instead of doublet, though it had been adorned with gems. Over his back he wore the greatsword Heartsbane, as though ready for battle at every moment. How thoughtful she was, to give him one when he least expected it.
"Your Grace?" Lord Mace asked, his gaze flitting to the gallery. "Shall we?"
"A moment, my good lord," Cersei said, her eyes searching the crowd until she found a boy in gold wearing a golden stag's head. Beside him stood a Kingsguard, his face disguised by his helm, with no sign of Lady Margaery's green skirts. Good. The queen nodded to the musicians in the gallery, and the dance began, the music so loud one could hear nothing else, all eyes fixed upon the stage.
Lord Mace clasped her hands, his brown eyes as warm as his smile. She returned it with equal warmth, savoring each note the musicians played. The steps were simple, yet elegant. Truth and Plenty glided past one another, turned, clasped hands, then glided again. Below them the dancers circled hand in hand, pausing to turn, kick one foot, then the other. The circle drew close to the steps of the dais, then retreated back. Standing in place, they stamped their feet to the music, clapped, then resumed circling, wheeling like hawks. No time at all seemed to pass before the trumpets blew the last measures of the dance.
Perfectly on cue, the world erupted into chaos.
Garbed in furs over grey and white surcoats, the northmen poured into the hall, their steel flashing in the torchlight. Lord Gyles Rosby was the first to fall, but not the last. Next they cut down old Lord Tremond Gargalen, followed by a Fossoway, a Wylde, and a Banefort. Men swore and ladies screamed, but the queen screamed louder still.
"The king!" She cried, seizing hold of Lord Mace's arm as he whirled, confused. "My lord, where is the my son?"
"Let go of me
!"
The Lord of Highgarden shoved her behind him, his golden scythe raised high as he faced the northmen charging the stage, his eyes searching for a golden stag mask that was not there. The red cloaks were searching too, those that were not running to defend the queen. Lord Tarly was in the fray, Heartsbane dripping with blood, but he was one of the only men armed, and he was at the other end of the stage, leaving Lord Mace unprotected.
Still screaming, Cersei made for Lord Tybolt, who had somehow gotten ahold of a spear. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she hid behind his bulk, crying for Tommen, for the Seven, for Jaime and for Lord Tywin, as if she had lost her wits. A northman gained the stage; Lord Mace cut him down with his golden scythe, sending blood flying through the air. The second he cut down as well, but he never saw the third, nor the fourth.
Lord Mace staggered as Lannister crimson spread across his tunic of Lannister gold, the sweetest sight she'd ever seen. She wanted to laugh, but she shrieked instead, a piercing shriek that cut through the clamor like a knife. Lord Tarly was shouting orders at the red cloaks, slaying northmen left and right. Lord Tybolt tried her pull her away from the stage, but the queen resisted, flinging herself beside Lord Mace's body, grasping his trembling hand and kissing it before she began reciting the prayer for the dying.
When the battle was done, she could still taste the blood upon her lips. The copper tang mingled with the salt of her tears as she listened to Lord Tarly explain what had happened, how the northmen had hidden amongst the commons, then forced their way up the serpentine steps, through the lower bailey, and across the drawbridge to Maegor's Holdfast.
Ser Boros Blount had died defending the bridge; Ser Daemon Sand had been knocked off the bridge and into the moat. The snow had cushioned most of his fall, but one of the spikes had pierced Ser Daemon's leg, and he was sorely wounded. That was a pity; she'd hoped he would be dead, the better to fill Prince Oberyn's heart with thoughts of vengeance against the vile northmen.
"What of my son?" The queen begged. "What of my gooddaughter, Queen Margaery?"
The king was safe, Lord Tarly told her. Ser Addam Marbrand had acted quickly, taking half the red cloaks with him as he and the boy abandoned the Queen's Ballroom for the safety of the king's chambers deep with in the holdfast. No one save herself and Ser Addam knew that Tommen had left before the dance started, leaving behind Pate the whipping boy in his place.
Lady Margaery, however, had not yet been found, nor the last of the northmen, who had fled Maegor's Holdfast soon after Lord Mace was slain. That was as she expected; Qyburn had offered to double their already impressive wages if they could manage to carry Margaery away into the city, have their way with her, then leave her body somewhere it was apt to be found quickly.
Half the lords and ladies in the room had fled screaming, or so it seemed as she looked around the cavernous hall. There was no sign of Meria Sand, nor Prince Oberyn either. That did not surprise her; Dornishmen were always the first to make themselves scarce when battle threatened.
Cersei had not expected the gallant Ser Loras to vanish from the ballroom. No one had seen him after the dance began, though that was to be expected, with everyone watching the performance. Had he gone off in pursuit of Margaery? The queen had not dared to hope she might slay three birds with one stone, but it would make the ruse even more convincing.
"Alert Ser Jacelyn Bywater, I want every ship in the harbor seized," the queen commanded. "These northmen cannot flee through the snow, they must risk the sea. If they seized my goodaughter, if they harmed one hair on her head, they shall die screaming."
They would die screaming regardless, of course, should any live long enough to meet Qyburn at the appointed place for the remainder of their payment. Hopefully they would bring a pair of pretty heads with them, with brown eyes and brown curls.
When the queen finally returned to her chambers, it was with sorrow in her face and joy in her heart. Meria Sand appeared to help ready the queen for bed, a process made more difficult by her drunkenness. Really, the queen was the one who had downed an entire flagon of golden wine, it was hilarious that Meria should be the one reeling dizzily and struggling to take hold of the queen, whilst Cersei remained perfectly still despite the way the room kept spinning. She did not bother to put on a shift, but curled bare beneath her sheets, without a bedmaid to disturb her slumber.
When she dreamt, she dreamt of Jaime. His golden sword shone red with blood as he pierced a silver-haired girl through the heart, then stepped over her body to clasp Cersei in his arms. Their lovemaking was frantic, passionate, almost violent; she sobbed and wailed, yet still he ravished her, until her loins ached and blood ran red between them.
When the queen awoke, she was alone. The sheets were tangled, and there was a damp patch beneath her thighs. It took no time at all the bring herself to her peak, once, twice, thinking of Jaime and of her victory the night before. Cersei was nearly to her third peak when the bells tolled seven times, soon followed by a knock at the door.
The queen did not acknowledge the knocking until she was ready. She washed her hands and anointed herself with perfume, to cover the smell of her musk. Shift and bedrobe served to preserve her modesty; her hair she left undressed, as if she had only just awoken.
Ser Jacelyn Bywater entered, his gold cloak soaked from the snow still falling outside her window.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing. "I have urgent tidings."
"Is there word of my gooddaughter?" She made herself tremble, made her eyes well up with tears.
"No, Your Grace," Ser Jacelyn said, brusquely but not unkindly. "Nor any sign of the northmen. Lord Tarly is combing Flea Bottom; the rest of the keep is still abed. We'll find them, Your Grace, the harbor master held every ship, just as you ordered. Save one, of course."
"Of course?" The queen asked, confused.
Ser Jacelyn frowned. "Lord Waters, Your Grace? You gave orders that he take a ship to wait beyond the bay, lest the northmen try to slip out from some hidden cove. He sailed on the morning tide, with two officers to help manage the crew. Lord Aurane took one of the smaller dromonds, Maiden's Luck; she was last seen sailing north."
The queen stared, astonished beyond words, her thoughts racing. Could Aurane have so easily betrayed her, she who had given him all he could desire and more besides? Bastards are born of deceit, she remembered, cursing herself for a fool. She did not dare send ships after him, not without risking the Tyrells ruining all with their wild accusations.
"Fetch me Lord Qyburn," the queen commanded. "I fear Aurane Waters may have been in league with these northmen who attacked."
The Stepstones teeemed with more pirate ships than had been seen in living memory; they must keep sailing north, unless they wished to be taken by reavers. That meant Duskendale, Rook's Rest, or Crackclaw Point, and Qyburn had agents in all of them, men who cut throats without asking questions. If they were mad enough to sail further north, the cruel sea would soon send them down to watery graves.
"I shall, Your Grace," Ser Jacelyn said, frowning deeper. "But there is more urgent news, I fear. Just after dawn, a mob appeared at the Gate of the Gods. They are led by Ser Bonifer Hasty, who called himself Brother Bonifer, and begged leave to lay a petition before the king."
"He may not have it," the queen yawned, her good humor returning as she imagine Margaery drowning beneath dark, pitiless waves.
Really, how could this have happened? Pycelle's raven to Rosby had returned within the same day; Lord Gyles' ward had sworn there were no rabble about. The cunning vermin must have realized they were spotted at Stokeworth, and given Rosby a wide berth to avoid being seen. Not that it mattered; the city walls were more than equal to a horde of unwashed peasants.
"Begging your pardon, Your Grace." Ser Jacelyn was sweating, how odd. "His Grace, the king- the king awoke early, and when he heard of the trouble at the Gate of the Gods..."
The queen's heart plummeted, her skin as cold as if the Stranger had passed her by.
"... King Tommen is gone, Your Grace. He left over an hour ago."
This is the last Cersei POV of Part IV. Depending on how/when the muse strikes, there might be a Tommen POV oneshot of the revolt. Can't wait to hear what y'all think!
Up Next
Chapter 143: Olyvar VI
Chapter 144: Jaime III
NOTES
1) In canon, Varys probably has Tyrek stashed away somewhere. Here, the kid just died during the riot.
2) Varys was the seventh dragon in Moqorro's vision, the "bright" one. His weird insincere obsession with the realm never quite made sense to me, so I like to headcanon that he's the grandson of Aerion Brightflame, trueborn, with a better claim to the throne than Aerys had.
Aerion's son Maegor disappeared from the canon records after the Great Council of 233 AC. Aerion's wife, Daenora Targaryen, also vanishes at that point. As Aerion spent several years in Lys, I thought it was plausible for Daenora to return there, in hopes of being forgotten now that Aegon V was on the throne, and to keep her son from being used as a pawn. Maegor was born in 232AC; it would be plausible for him to sire Varys, who is of vague middle age, and first became Aerys' master of whispers in his youth in 278 AC.
So, basically, Daenora raised Maegor quietly in Lys. Maegor grew up, got married to a local minor noble, and had Va(e)rys, who was born in 253 AC (a plausible birth year base on canon). Maegor and his wife both died of accident or illness within a few years; Varys does not remember them. Daenora raised Varys until he was 5-8 years old, at which point she also died of natural causes.
Having nowhere else to go, Varys was adopted by a troupe of mummers whom Daenora had patronized. Eventually, the leader of the mummers sold him to a wizard who wanted a boy with king's blood. Varys spending most of his life as the spider in Westeros, putting all his efforts behind Faegon, makes way more sense if he has a personal grudge, and if he wants to dethrone the Targaryen branch which dispossessed his dad. Unable to sire children himself, he sought out the last Blackfyres, found Serra in Lys, and set her up with his friend Illyrio.
Oddly enough, while Varys has no book canon eye color, but the graphic novel gave him purple eyes, a fact I learned literally halfway through outlining this chapter, long after I came up with the entire backstory above. Also, fuck's sake, Varys is just Aerys with a V added and an e removed! It's a very Targ style name!
Varys: "I was trueborn. And—"
Cersei: "Oh, I beg your pardon; I forgot that I don't care. Ser Lyn, if you would?"
Varys:
3) We get mentions of masked balls in canon, but they're never seen on page. I decided it would be very fun to remedy that :D Catherine de Medici threw EXTRAVAGANT parties as a display of royal power and to distract feuding nobles. Cersei's ridiculous train on her grown was inspired by this great tumblr post.
Funny thing, there was a medieval masked ball that had even nastier (if fewer) fatalities, than here, the Bal des Ardents. Four noblemen dressed as wild men got accidentally burned to death when their costumes caught on fire.
Cersei dressing as Truth was too hilarious to pass up. The veil and mirror symbolism is extra hilarious because she's constantly hiding the Truth, rather than revealing it, and she's extremely vain.
There's limited sources on medieval dances, but circle dances were popular.
4) While Cersei vastly overestimates her own genius, she is not a complete idiot. She excels at short term planning, she's just terrible at thinking long term. Cersei favors stealth and plausible deniability; if she got caught, or the plan failed, she would have pinned it all on Qyburn. It's also a rather ridiculous, over the top production; Cersei could have just had Mace poisoned somehow, but nope, she wants the ~drama~ of it all, since she can't savor her victory openly.