The Weirwood Queen

by theredwolf17

Lady is buried beneath a weirwood tree, and Sansa prays to the old gods for Lady to stay with her. The gods hear her prayer, in a manner of speaking. Everything changes. Crossposting from Ao3.

166. Cersei VII

Content Warning: This chapter features dubious consent and intimate partner violence.

PSA: Domestic violence is a serious and all too common crime. Unfortunately, 1 in 4 women will experience DV in their lifetime. Here is a list of early warning signs that might help you recognize potential abuse in your relationship or that of others. Anyone can be a victim; no one is "too smart" or "too strong" to be abused. I'd also like to note that men can be victims and women can be abusers, although female-on-male abuse is less likely to be reported due to stigma. Female-on-female abuse is also likely underreported.

Emotional, verbal, and mental abuse are usually precursors to escalating to physical abuse. Further, although all abuse and especially physical violence should be taken seriously, strangulation is a massive red flag, and often the last step before murder.

If you or someone you know is being abused by a partner, you can call 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788 (US only).

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Late March-early April, 305 AC

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As ever, they rode into the sunset. Though it sank toward the horizon, the sun still shone. Bright and beautiful, its light gleamed upon the snow, so dazzling that it took her breath away to see the whole world turned to gold.

Save for beneath the gathering clouds. Their long shadow loomed over the road, reaching for the travelers like a cold dark hand.

The queen shivered, yearning for her silks and furs. Her cloak was made from thin wool, and though the cowled grey robes of a silent sister covered everything but her eyes, they were not warm. Beneath her robes, Cersei wore only smallclothes and a thin shift, woven from coarse roughspun wool that scratched her delicate skin. Such garb was barely suited for a whore, let alone one who had the honor of serving Lord Confessor Qyburn.

But Cersei had nothing else she could wear. Once she had dozens of gowns, made from smooth silk and delicate cashmere, from opulent damask and from shining cloth-of-gold. Each morning, her maids dressed her in whatever shade she fancied. Most often Cersei wore the crimson and gold of her house, but she had gowns of every color. Sometimes she favored a lush green which suited her eyes; other times, the pure ivory which flattered her rosy cheeks and made her feel close to Jaime.

Now her only gown was black, the rich velvet crushed and crumpled to fit into a saddlebag. Her crown was wrapped in the gown's soft folds; the queen's head still felt bare without it. Cersei was lucky to have any crown at all. Jaime would have had Qyburn break it apart, as he had her necklace and earrings and the bracelets and rings which matched them.

"Even a fragment of gold or a single small jewel may still draw unwanted attention," Qyburn had tsked as he examined the pile which Jaime had brought him whilst she changed clothes. Nudging aside her lavish golden carcanet with its dozens of white diamonds and seven fiery teardrop rubies, he picked up a thin golden chain. "Oh, this is lovely."

"Leave it be," Jaime said, taking the chain from Qyburn's hand. He draped it over her neck and tucked it beneath her robes, the slim golden sword which hung from the chain dangling between her breasts. The very image of Brightroar writ small, or so Jaime had claimed when he gifted it to her long ago. Cersei had always hated it; she would much rather have had a real sword. It was sheer chance that she had thought to wear it that day; she did not need a love token to remind her of the bond she shared with her twin.

Jaime's disguise was far less humiliating than her own. A hedge knight was still a knight, though she could not grow used to seeing plain steel armor in place of white enameled scales or gilded plate. A battered helm covered his face; she hoped he could feel it freezing against his thin padded cap each time the wind blew. There was no hair to warm his head. Soon after they left King's Landing, Jaime had shaved his golden curls, and the stubble slowly growing back was thinner than it ought to be.

Yet a lion is still a lion, even one shorn of his mane, Cersei told herself. Only a lion, only her Jaime would dare escape his captors in the dead of night, climb an icy cliff and race through the dismal tunnels beneath the Red Keep, all for love of her. It was the two of them against the world, just as it always had been.

And thus far, Jaime had kept them safe, even though the bounty upon their heads was no doubt the richest ever offered. They had skirted every castle and holdfast, only taking shelter from winter's chill in villages off the beaten path. There was no one they could trust, no one save each other.

Soon Aegon Targaryen would rue his cowardice, if he did not already. The moment he heard his Dornishmen were dead, Aegon ought to have slain her twin where he stood. Instead the fool had let Jaime live. That was a grievous error, and one that would be his doom. As soon as they reached Casterly Rock, the queen would be safe. There was no mightier fortress in the world, no better place to regroup and sharpen her claws. Once Jaime smashed Lydden and his band of treacherous curs, the Westerlands would be hers again.

But first she must endure the journey home.

Nearly a thousand miles lay between King's Landing and Casterly Rock. In the songs, persecuted ladies and their sworn swords galloped day and night, traveling vast distances easy as breathing. Singers were such liars. No horse could gallop all day, let alone through the dark of a moonless night. Even a courier changing horses as often as he could required ten days at the very least, and that in summer when the roads were dry.

Winter was less kind. Even with Jaime pushing the horses as hard as he dared, they had ridden west along the goldroad for almost a moon's turn. Snow and ice were their foes, as were the surly innkeeps who refused Jaime when he tried to trade their worn out mounts for fresh. Some sweetened when offered a bit of gold or a tiny diamond, but not all.

"Them's my hosses," one innkeep had said, confused. "Raised 'em up from when they was foals and all." He ducked his head at Cersei and made a pitiful imitation of a bow. "Beggin' the sister's pardon, but the Stranger can't have 'em."

"This is a diamond," Jaime had told the man, his teeth bared in a cutting smile. "And the last of the poor sister's dowry from when she entered the motherhouse. You could buy ten horses for what it's worth."

"From who?" The innkeep shrugged his sloped shoulders. "It'll be weeks afore we see any merchants, and I need my horses now."

Cersei wished the Stranger would take the grey nag Jaime had gotten for her two nights past from an innkeep with far more sense. Bad enough that she had oozing, bloody saddle sores on her bottom thanks to long days riding upon the cheapest, most ill-fitting saddle she'd ever had the displeasure to sit. The grey nag did not seem to like the saddle either. First, she had tried to bite Jaime when he put it on this morning. Then she had tried to crush the queen's legs against the stable door, and against every tree that lay between the miserable little village and the footpath which led back to the goldroad.

Fortunately, there were few trees along the goldroad itself. It ran west through the floor of a valley surrounded by hills, the largest of which boasted keeps of stone or timber. Many of them were charred, their walls scorched black. Plainly that was the work of ungrateful peasants, whose fruitless attempts to overthrow their betters could only be quelled by the sword. A few keeps were untouched, no doubt those which belonged to lords with the sense to follow Lord Tywin's example and keep a well-trained garrison.

Oh, but it felt so good to be back in the Westerlands. Cersei had hated riding through the Reach, whose open plains were as flat as they were dull. Her heart had leapt when she first glimpsed mountains rising in the west, their peaks white with snow and their slopes green with pines. This was the queen's true domain, not that stinking city filled with malcontents.

Still, it chafed that she must enter her own lands by stealth. A queen ought to travel in a state befitting her rank. A lavish feast and kneeling courtiers ought to have greeted her at Deep Den, not a squad of sharp-eyed guardsmen in Lydden green and brown who challenged every traveler that sought to pass by their castle.

Thank the Seven that the queen had the wits to evade them. A silent sister could not speak, but Jaime could. At her direction, a few days before they reached Deep Den, he begged leave to join a small party of merchants going the same way. The silent sister he guarded was ill, so ill she could barely sit her horse. Might she ride in the back of one of their wayns? Only for a few days, to recover her strength; a holy woman would never wish to impose upon their hospitality except at dire need—

"Hey, I know her!" One of the merchant's sons cried, eagerly stepping closer. Cersei's heart thudded, rabbit quick; of course a queen could not go unrecognized, of course she would draw attention, even a veil could not conceal her beauty—

"Aunt Alys, is that you?"

"Not this again," one of the older merchants groaned. "Amory, half of Lannisport has green eyes, not just your aunt. I don't care how sweet she was to you when you were a toddler, you can't bother every silent sister we meet." The merchant cuffed the lad's ear, then turned to Cersei. "Begging your pardons, sister. The boy can't seem to get it through his head that his aunt had a common look."

Her, common? The queen could have slapped the merchant for that, and would have, had she not needed the witless fool's wayn. It was an awful, rickety thing, with wheels that creaked and jarred her about until her head ached even worse than usual. Jaime had not been lying when he said she was unwell; Cersei had felt poorly almost since they left King's Landing.

And why shouldn't the queen feel ill, when she was so ill-used by their journey? Winter was no time to travel, let alone suffer long hours toiling across longer leagues. There was less snow once they were away from the city, but the air was still freezing, the wind sharp enough to bite. Even so, some days she felt too warm, her skin slick with sweat, her mind clouded by fever.

Cersei was glad she did not feel feverish at present. The tremors that shook her hands as she held her reins were bad enough, as was the headache that had plagued her since she finished her midday prayers to the Mother. Now it was almost dusk. In the distance she could see smoke rising from the chimneys of a goodly sized holdfast, and from the well-kept towerhouse that looked down upon it from atop a nearby hill.

When they came upon a meandering footpath, they took it, leaving the goldroad behind. Soon after, the grey nag was up to her tricks again. More than once she pretended to stumble, no doubt hoping to be rid of her rider. Cersei clung on, choking back bile as her stomach roiled. It was not fitting that a queen be forced to vomit beside the road; hopefully they would reach the inn before it came to that.

Much as she hated sharing a common room with insolent peasants, she hated the old patched canvas tent Jaime had bought on the outskirts of King's Landing even more. Sleeping on hard ground rolled in a few shabby blankets was a soldier's lot in life, not a queen's. And even the poorest inn had more than melted snow to drink, though she was sick to death of small beer and ale.

They did not stay in the sort of inns which could afford to keep costly Arbor Gold on hand to please any worthies who chanced to pass by. Such places were large and bustling with travelers, travelers who might think to wonder at a green-eyed silent sister and hedge knight even before King Aegon's men came in search of them. No, they stayed at inns which were not even proper inns, more like a tavern with a spare room or two that sat dusty more oft than not. If they had any wine at all, it would be either cheap swill or half turned to vinegar.

Or so Jaime said; Cersei could not taste it for herself, not without ruining her disguise. Even the most mutton-headed knave knew that silent sisters did not indulge in such pleasures of the earthly flesh. Silent sisters were miserable, lifeless things. When they entered the motherhouse their worldly goods were given up to the poor, their heads shaved bald with razors, their tongues bound forever in vows of sacred silence.

Thankfully, no one saw anything amiss in a silent sister taking an interest in the cats who lurked underfoot in even the humblest tavern. The queen hated the sight of them, hated the way they made her heart squeeze and her eyes sting. A few nights past, a pox-scarred peasant boy had dared pick one up and place it in her lap, mistaking her staring for affection.

"Gyb is a good 'un, sister," the wretched lad had told her. "Kills every rat 'e sees, and never puts his claws nowhere 'cept where 'e should. And Gyb'll keep you nice and warm if 'e likes you, that he will."

Unable to refuse, Cersei clung to the cat. Gyb's fur was orange and white and whisper soft, so soft she could not help petting it, nor carrying the cat to bed with her despite Jaime's look of derision as he settled onto one of the two pitiful straw pallets that had been laid out for them beside the common room's hearth. Not that Gyb had endured her company for long. All too soon he tried to scamper off, and when she tried to stop him by cuddling him tighter, the cat hissed and scratched until she let go.

Mercifully, there were no orange and white cats in the ramshackle tavern which they found just before dark. Small wonder, with a wrinkled old mastiff snoring by the hearth. The dog must be ancient, to sleep unbothered by the inferior singing of a local man whose voice was as thin and reedy as he was. The song of summer he had chosen was so simple even he could not ruin it, though it would have been better had it not lacked the harmony of other voices which it ought to have had.

There were plenty of other voices in the smoky common room, all of which fell silent at the sight of guests. Not for long, though. After a brief chorus of "ser"s and "sister"s, the locals returned to their tankards and their talk, though one old man was good enough to inform Jaime that he had best see to their horses himself, as there was no stableboy and the taverner was in the privy.

"It'll be a while," the old man chuckled. "Forley's got the runs again. Mayhaps if the sister prays for him, he'll be back sooner."

Cersei inclined her head, glad her veil hid the look of disgust upon her face. The lowborn were appalling uncouth amongst themselves, apt to sharing every thought that came into their empty heads. They would never dare speak so freely if they knew it was a queen who graced them with her presence.

The grey robes of a silent sister did win her some slight courtesy. While Jaime went out to tend the horses, she took the warmest seat by the fire, a pox-scarred man having readily yielded it when he saw her approach. Cersei barely resisted the urge to demand that he yield his tankard of ale too. Her mouth was dry, so dry, and her tremors always seemed to ease once she had quenched her thirst.

For now, all the queen could do was wait, wait and listen to the locals' witless prattle as she had in every common room between here and the Blackwater Bay. At first all the gossip had been irritatingly out of date. Oh, the smallfolk knew of Aegon Targaryen's coming, perhaps even of Lord Tarly's loss at the Battle of Bitter Winds, but little else. She had been forced to endure a sennight of fools toasting to Queen Cersei's inevitable surrender before rumors began to spread of the burning of King's Landing.

"King Aegon and his dragon burned the Red Keep, just like the Conqueror burned Harrenhal," a pot boy slurred. Free ale had begun to flow as soon as the boy arrived from the nearby holdfast, red-faced and quivering with excitement to share his news, and the boy was already drunk.

"Horseshit," a teamster scoffed.

"It's true!" the pot boy insisted. "I heard it from the cook, who had it from the serving girl."

"Darla listens at doors," another local told the teamster. "Ser Ronel don't have a maester, but his sister married better 'n he did, and sends a courier whenever her husband gets a raven with sommat juicy."

"I heard it was wildfire, not dragonfire," the teamster said. No one but her seemed to notice Jaime take a long, long draught from his tankard. "Heard the whole city went up in green flames, and there's naught left but ash."

Not the whole city, fool. That would have been a sight to see. The memory was close and sharp, so clear she could almost taste it. She could almost feel the ghost of Jaime's hand between her legs, making her slick so he could slide home in a single vicious thrust. Her heart had fluttered inside her chest as she looked out the tower window, her ears listening intently for the bells to begin tolling noon, her eyes watching for the burst of green. When it came, so did she, with tears streaming down her face.

The queen had not expected that. She had thought she had spent all her tears already, weeping for her son. Tommen, oh, sweet Tommen... Qyburn had saved him when she could not, had worked a miracle to snatch him from the Stranger's grasp. How could Jaime make her abandon their son, the king they had made together? That was all Cersei could think of the first time her twin claimed her in the grey dawn, no matter how passionately she kissed him back, no matter how hard he bit and sucked and pinched and thrust. She did not even know she was crying until her brother asked why she wept.

"From joy," she had lied.

Only a fool would ask such a thing, or believe her answer. Her grief was hers alone; no man could understand a mother's pain, not even Jaime. He had kissed her tears and held her tight, so tight she could barely breathe as Cersei drifted off to sleep. She woke to more kisses and a meal already laid out upon the bed. When her belly was full, she pulled away from Jaime, glad for an excuse to escape his touch. Instead he followed her to the window, clasping her in an embrace that was as possessive as it was suffocating. He had not let go of her until after their second coupling, withdrawing from her with a soft wet sound. Seed trickled down her thighs as she watched the flames, unable to look away as Jaime did.

They had not coupled since. Cersei would not have it; the risk was too great upon the road. But Jaime would not be denied, not entirely. In inns and taverns he must go without, but never in the tent. The saddle sores were unsightly enough to spare her aching loins, but not her hands and mouth. Sometimes Jaime toyed with her instead, her face pressed down into a blanket to keep her quiet as he wrung pleasure from her with his tongue, making her peak until she was so sore and sensitive that she shoved him away. Sometimes he let her, laughing low in his chest. Sometimes he did not. His ardor should have thrilled her; the years had not dulled her beauty, nor his desire. Yet as the days passed she began to dread the coming of night, the time when her body was not hers own.

Tonight, though, tonight she was safe. When Jaime returned from taking care of their horses, he could do no more than claim a seat beside her, and submit to the impertinent questioning of the locals. What was ser's name? Where had he and the silent sister come from? Where were they bound? Her twin answered each question with lazy ease, well used to suffering fools. Ser Robert Flowers was a poor hedge knight from the northern Reach, charged with escorting a silent sister from her cloister near Deep Den to a motherhouse in Lannisport.

"Deep Den?" the pox-scarred man asked. "Have ye seen his lordship, then?"

"I hear Lord Mordryd's a fine, fierce sort of man," gushed a homely goodwife as she bustled out of the kitchen. When she saw the woman had a tankard of ale in each hand, Cersei's mouth watered. When she saw the goodwife set them down beside two locals, her fists clenched beneath the folds of her robe.

"Begging yer pardon, ser, sister," the goodwife said, oblivious. "My husband would have seen t' ye at once, if'n he weren't in t' privy." The goodwife bit her lip. "Oh, I don't like it," she fretted, anxious. "His piles have never been so bad afore. One o' them is stickin' right out, like a bubble made o' blood, big as my thumbnail, and when he tries t'—"

Thank the gods, she shut up when Jaime interrupted her to ask for ale. The goodwife ducked her head and bustled away again, fretting to herself under her breath.

"Have ye met t' badger, ser?" a young redheaded boy piped up. He gazed at Jaime as if he looked like himself, a proud Lion of the Rock, not a scruffy baseborn ruffian. "T' Mad Badger?"

"No," Jaime drawled, clearly bored.

"Mad Badger," a greybeard snorted. "Mad is right, sure enough, there's naught else t' call it."

"Not this again," the pox-scarred man grumbled.

"Lord Tywin were a good man," the greybeard said, stubbornly plowing on. "What he did to t' Reynes weren't right, but neither were Lord Tytos lettin' 'em do as they pleased. A toothless lion ain't no use. Ye couldn't go to a summer fair less ye wanted some robber knight t' take yer crops for hisself and rape yer wife and daughters afore he let ye go, if he let ye go at all. Lord Tywin put an end t' it, so he did, and not an outlaw dared set foot in the west while he lived."

"Why bother?" The pox-scarred man scoffed. "There weren't much left t' take, not w' taxes rising so high."

"Bah," the greybeard said. "There were plenty o' plunder when my boys returned from King's Landing, and—"

"Who cares about that?" The redheaded boy wrinkled his nose. "My da said Lord Tywin never won no battles." Cersei clenched her fists tighter, both to still the tremors and to keep herself from slapping him. "Lord Tully whipped him, and then t' Young Wolf whipped him, and then he run back t' King's Landing w' his tail between his legs."

With a clunk, the goodwife set a tankard of ale on the table in front of her. Weary of waiting, the queen seized it immediately, careful not to spill as she brought it up under the veil that draped over her face. An irritating way to eat and drink, but she had grown used to it. The ale was middling at best, but the tremors eased almost at once; by the time she finished the tankard, her headache was beginning to go away.

Her anger was not. The lowborn swine would not stop singing Lord Lydden's praises. Lord Lydden gave generously to the almshouses. Lord Lydden heard the unwashed mob when they came whining about their supposed grievances. Lord Lydden had not only offered safe harbor to the rebels and traitors, but had the cunning notion to feign that they had captured his keep and his children, so that he might gather swords and sellswords in King's Landing without arousing suspicion.

"He fucked t' queen harder than her brother did," a hunchbacked crone cackled as she spun thread. "Serves t' bitch right."

"Oh?" Jaime covered a yawn, his eyes glinting in the firelight.

"Aye," spat the pox-scarred man. "Lord Tywin's taxes were high, but ye could pay 'em, if you weren't too fond o' a full belly when the harvest were poor. He'd a never raised t' taxes in winter, nor had his knights hangin' beggin' brothers from trees. That's what comes o' havin' a woman rule. T' moonblood puts their humors out o' balance and makes 'em veer back an' forth like t' tides. Either they're softer than goose feathers, or crueler than poison."

"Not my ma," the redheaded boy objected.

The greybeard laughed. "Your ma ain't barely had her moonblood since she were wed," he said, ruffling the boy's hair. "Soon as Jenny were off the teat, yer da put ye in her belly, and as soon as ye were off the teat, he put Pate in her belly. D'ye know what they mean to name t' new babe?"

"Ma said I could name it," the boy said proudly. "Jenny said it'll be any time now; ma started having her pains yesterday."

"Poor Letty," the goodwife tsked, setting bowls of thin pottage before Cersei and Jaime. "I hope it ain't born still like t' last babe. Never saw her smile for months, not till we went t' see Lord Lydden marchin' by. Oh, did ye ever see such banners!"

Cersei would have rather seen the goodwife hanged than see the banners she described at length. There had been far more than just badgers on a field halved green and brown. There had been a greying lion with its heart cut out, a dwarf lion shrouded in green flames, a lion mounting a lioness from behind, a lioness that transformed into a boar and gutting a stag. The last made the queen smile behind her veil.

"And there were a bunch o' banners w' writing on 'em, all alike. More ale, sister?" the goodwife asked, picking up the empty tankard. Rather than fetch the ale as soon as she saw Cersei nod, the goodwife kept blathering on. "I asked one o' the soldiers what they said, and he said t' banners said—"

The door swung open. A cold draught of air swept in, as bitter as the wailing of the man who entered. Several children clung to his legs; another was slung over his hip. All of them were weeping too, so loud she almost missed the cry that burst from the redheaded boy's lips as he ran to them.

Cersei's ale was forgotten. The goodwife blubbered like a baby as she flung her fat arms around the man, still chattering like a squirrel in between her sobs. It seemed an age before the man worked out what she was saying, and when he did, he looked straight at Cersei.

"T' Seven are merciful," the man said dully, "t' send a silent sister t' bury my Letty. She were always afeared o' dyin', and us w' no septon nor mule t' take her to t' the one at the holdfast. Septon Lorimer come through two moons past; he won't be back t' bless t' grave for a year or more."

"I'm sorry," Jaime said, rising to his feet. "But the sister has urgent business; we must leave at dawn." The man's face crumpled, crestfallen. "But she can prepare the body, and sit vigil until the Hour of the Stranger."

Cersei could have killed him for that. She dared not refuse, not with the offer already made; no silent sister would shun her duty so. And so, rather than enjoy the meager pleasure of a second tankard of ale, she found herself back out in the cold, following the widower and his sobbing brats.

The hovel was small and poor, though tidier than she expected. Upon a musty straw-stuffed mattress lay the dead woman. Her features were so coarse and weathered that she looked too old for childbearing, but the naked babe wailing in the corner said otherwise. A girl who could not have been more than thirteen rocked it in her arms, trying without success to calm it.

Sick of having her ears assaulted, Cersei strode across the room. Startled, the girl yielded up the babe. Its face was red and wrinkled, still slick with the waxy milk of its mother's womb. There was a kettle on the fire; after a few sharp gestures it was brought to her, along with a pile of rags. Washing a common babe was beneath her, but still better than looking at the dead woman. And the babe quieted a bit once it was clean and swaddled.

"Thank ye, sister, bless ye," the father said, taking the babe and resting it against his shoulder.

She could stall no longer. Her stomach roiling, Cersei turned back to the bed, looking but refusing to see. A weaker woman would have run or vomited. The queen did neither. With cool composure she washed the dead woman, starting from her face and working her way down. Her hands trembled as she lifted the blood-stained shift, but she lifted it all the same. A corpse was nothing, nothing but a statue made from cold flesh rather than gold or marble.

When she finished, every rag was sodden with blood, and the queen's hands were stained red to the wrists. Hot water and lye soap served to free her from the taint of common blood, but they could not free her from the trap in which Jaime had flung her. No, she must sit vigil, all through the long hours that remained before midnight when the Stranger came for the souls of the dead. The father did not join her, instead taking the babe and the children back to the tavern, whose homely mistress was his sister.

And so Cersei sat, alone with the dead woman. There was no one to see the queen's tears when they came, flowing from her eyes against her will. And when your tears have drowned you, a hideous voice croaked, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.

No, the queen thought, never, never. It meant nothing that she wept each night; what sort of mother did not mourn her children? Besides, it did not count if no one saw, if no one knew. Once she had let Jaime see her tears, but no more. She only wept once he was asleep, once she was curled up in a ball, her skin red and raw beneath her shift, her saddle sores throbbing, her head cold and naked without her hair.

Trembling, the queen touched her cowl, the wool chafing her hands. She had only wanted a bath. A chance to soak in hot water, not just scrub with a washcloth and a bit of hard lye soap. The tavern near the Redgrass Field was large enough to have a few rooms, and one of them boasted a wood-and-copper tub, so large it took the serving girl ages to fill it with water from the kettle over the hearth. How was she to know the girl would come back after being dismissed, let alone enter without knocking?

"I found a bit o' soap for you, sister," the girl said, shutting the door behind her. "Much nicer than that awful stuff we keep for ordinary guests." Cersei could barely hear her; outside the wind howled, battering at the shutters like a beast desperate to be let in. "I—"

The girl turned. Cersei sat in the tub, naked as her nameday. The bath concealed her sex, just as her hands concealed her breasts, but there was no hiding the mass of golden curls which had lain hidden beneath coif and cowl.

"I- I don't," the girl stammered. "Wh—"

That was the last word she ever spoke. Busy staring at the queen, she did not notice the door open and close behind her. She never saw Jaime, nor the heavy pitcher which he brought down upon her head. The girl fell to the floor with a soft thud, the soap dropping from her hand. Jaime stepped over her, his mouth twisted in distaste.

"What were you thinking?" Cersei hissed, careful to keep her voice low.

"I dared not give her time to scream," her brother replied, just as low. "The sword would have been too messy; pools of blood lead to questions."

"So do dead bodies!" Was Jaime mad? Had he forgotten that wretched day at Winterfell, the day everything began to go wrong? "We could have bribed her or frightened her into silence, or taken her with us if need be, did you leave all your wits in King's Landing?"

"My wits got you out of King's Landing," Jaime sneered, looking down at her. "You weren't complaining then."

"Because I thought you had a plan beyond reckless heroics! A plan to rescue your queen and your king, a plan to deal with Aegon Targaryen and that little bitch Sansa—"

Jaime laughed. "Reckless? It was not I who arranged that disastrous marriage. Father must have been cursing you from the seven hells; it's a wonder his shade doesn't haunt you."

Cersei slapped the water angrily. "Father was the one who was stupid enough to allow a trial by combat—"

"Because you demanded the girl be put on trial!"

"I wouldn't have even had Sansa Stark if you hadn't brought her to me!"

Jaime stared at her as if she was witless. "Of course I brought her to you, not that you ever thanked me! No, all you cared about was your vengeance, never mind that I had lost a hand—"

"Because you let Edmure Tully wound you!"

"I was escaping—"

Cersei cut him off. "You wouldn't have needed to escape if you hadn't gotten yourself captured—"

"If you hadn't beheaded Ned Stark—"

"That was Joffrey's idea, not mine! And Stark never would have known about us if you hadn't flung his son from a tower!"

"You told me to!" Jaime snarled.

"I did no such thing! And even if I had, you were the one who insisted on swiving me then and there, even after I told you it was too risky—"

A knock came at the door, sudden and loud. Cersei ducked beneath the water, huddling down so she could not be seen. Jaime strode to the door, opening it the merest crack to reveal the burly taverner.

"Beggin' your pardons, ser," the taverner said. "But I heard voices, and I can't find Tansy nowhere."

"The sister sleeps like the dead," Jaime told him, so smooth the queen could hear his wry smile. "When Tansy offered to warm my blankets, I saw no harm in letting her. A man grows lonesome with only a silent sister for company."

That was enough to send the taverner off, cursing under his breath. Cersei finished her bath as quickly as she could, then donned her robes again. She did not leave the room for the rest of the night, not even when she woke to hear Jaime creeping through the dark silence of the tavern, the girl slung over his shoulder. It must be convincing, she had told him; no one could think anything amiss.

"I left her by a patch of ice," he hissed in her ear when he returned. "With a rock beside her head and the rest of our coins in her pocket."

After that, it was easy. The next morning, the taverner did not question Jaime when he said the girl had snuck from his bed whilst he slept, taking all his coin with her. It was not long before a stableboy came running in, his face white with shock.

"Serves her right, the thieving slut," the taverner growled. "Begging your pardons, sister. I'm sorry, ser, I never had no trouble with her before." A few more apologies, a few coins as a donation to the silent sister's motherhouse, and then they were on their way again.

That night, there was no tavern. Jaime put up their tent in deadly silence, never looking at her once. When it was done, he lifted the flap for her, a courtesy as welcome as it was unexpected. She was eager to be out of the cold, so eager she did not see the knife in his hand until he had already pinned her to the ground, his weight smothering her as he hacked at her hair.

Cersei only struggled for a moment, too startled and too frightened to resist with a knife so near her throat. He had not shaved her, but he had cropped her curls as short as he could. After, he had whispered tender words in her ear, and held and kissed her with a sweetness she could not recall since before she and Robert were wed. But that night she had dreamt of the Imp and woken in a panic, her skin slick with sweat. It was only a nightmare; Tyrion could not hurt her, no one could, not with Jaime to protect her. Jaime could protect her from anything, even Lord Tywin's wrath.

How did Father know? Cersei wondered as she shivered, wishing for the awful vigil to be over. She had not stood vigil for Lord Tywin; it was absurd that she sit with some common woman too hideous to be loved and too weak to survive childbed. Did Varys tell him? Why? The eunuch pretended to know everything, but he had never given any sign that he knew of her trysts with Jaime. And if Varys had known, why choose to reveal such a choice secret to Lord Tywin? Her lord father had never trusted the simpering eunuch; he would have had the man killed for daring to make such a vile accusation against his own son and daughter.

Cersei would have done the same, if some foul creature dared besmirch Myrcella with his lying tongue. A lioness defended her cubs, always. It was she who had comforted Joffrey after Robert dealt him a vicious blow, so vicious even Stannis was taken aback, or so said the serving man who had run to fetch her. Joffrey was only seven; when she found him dazed on the floor, crying and clutching at the baby teeth which he had lost, she had known she would do anything to keep him safe. She had promised Robert that she would kill him in his sleep if he dared lay a finger on her son, and fool as he was, the man had sense enough to believe her.

As she sat in the cold silence, it was hard to resist the call of sleep. As the few logs in the hearth crackled and hissed, the queen drifted in and out of dreams. She dreamt her children played together in the gardens of the Red Keep, Tommen toddling along on unsteady feet as Myrcella held his hand, both of them trying not to be caught by Joffrey as he gave chase. Of course her bold little cub caught his prey, with a bright smile and a glad cry of "catch me, you have to catch me!" before he raced off again. How Joffrey had loved that game, at least until Myrcella grew fast enough to catch him.

Mother, a voice screamed. Mother, catch me! But the queen was too late; she was always too late. Joffrey lay upon the hard stones, bloody and broken, his eyes unseeing. From above came a merry laugh; Sansa Stark stood upon Traitor's Walk, exulting in her victory. Cersei ran for the steps, but the girl was already gone, vanished in a plume of green flame. Myrcella stood in her place, a golden veil upon her golden curls. Mother, she whispered. Hear me roar. Then she was gone, heedless of her mother's screams. The queen fell to her knees; when she looked up, she knelt beneath the Iron Throne. Mother? Tommen said. Blood bubbled from his lips, dripping onto the great barb steel that pierced his breast. Mother, he pleaded. Mother, help me.

Will the king and I have children? a girl's voice asked.

Mother, her children cried, mother mother mother—

Mother, a hag croaked in a mocking voice. Mother of kings, mother of death.

The girl with the golden curls turned and fled, fled from the warty old woman with her sour breath and sour words. Mother, she wanted her mother, where was her mother—

A door appeared before her. Not just any door, a bloodwood door, with gilded lions carved deep into the crimson wood, the handle made from solid gold. The golden girl seized it without thinking; the maester was gone, gone to find Father, and that meant he couldn't keep her from Mother, not any more. The door was heavy, and the golden girl was younger now, no more than seven, but she yanked and yanked until the door opened just wide enough to slip in.

No, the queen told her, no, stop, you little fool, no!

The girl never heard. She could not, not with the babe screaming and the maids weeping, weeping so hard they never saw the little girl draw near the bed, just near enough to glimpse her mother...

The nightmare should have ended there. The girl should have turned and run, run so fast and so quiet that no one ever knew she was there, no one but Jaime, who held her as they sobbed together, the last time she had ever seen her brother weep. Instead the little girl stood, frozen, staring at the bed, at the bloody sheets, at the pale white corpse as it sat up.

"Sweetling," her mother called. "Come, daughter, come, I've missed you so." She reached out to the little girl, her arms open to embrace her—

Cersei leapt from her seat, panting as if she had run a thousand leagues. The hovel was cold and empty, the fire dying down. There were logs sitting by the hearth; she tossed one on the fire, hissing when a splinter pricked her hand. It still hurt by the time the father and his children finally returned to release her from her vigil, to be escorted back to the tavern by the redheaded boy. His eyes were red now too, his nose and cheeks smeared with half frozen snot.

"No, that holdfast never had no revolt," a squat man was telling Jaime when she stepped inside. "Ser Morrec Hetherspoon is a godly man, humble and goodhearted, just like his father Ser Tybolt was. There weren't a dry eye when t' septon buried him; once Ser Morrec started t' weep, ye couldn't help but join in."

Cersei's belly flipped; no doubt she would feel better if her mouth were not so dry. She gestured for a tankard of ale, wishing she could roll her eyes and mock Ser Morrec with Jaime. Only a fool showed such weakness to his smallfolk; soon or late, they would turn on him. The mob could never be trusted, no more than courtiers could. Only family could be trusted, true family like Jaime and Uncle Kevan, not the twisted little demon that had killed her mother. And he would have killed the queen too, if she'd let him have the chance...

The next day, they returned to the goldroad. The grey nag seemed to have tired of her tricks; she gave the queen no trouble as they trotted past the holdfast, past the tower, past all folk who might be close enough to hear. Only then did Cersei break her silence.

"You should not have made me tend that woman," she complained. "They would have left me be, had you not suggested it."

"You said I must be convincing," Jaime said coolly. "What, sweet sister, were you frightened?"

"Never," Cersei replied, feeling her cheeks flush. "But—"

"Good; then shut up. Lannisport is only a few days ride; it would be a shame if your wagging tongue gave us away so close to home." And with that, Jaime kicked his horse to a canter.

The queen clenched her reins tight, wanting nothing more than to scream. Her head ached; she felt so sick of everything, of weak ale and thin stews, of saddle sores and squalid beds, and of silence most of all. There were too many thoughts shut up in her head, thoughts she could not share with anyone save Jaime. How dare he refuse to hear her?

It is the journey that makes him cross, the queen consoled herself. Jaime will be himself again when we are home. They had always been happiest there, before the world came between them, before Mother died, before Jaime was sent away to Crakehall and came back talking of nothing but knighthood and the sword that he would one day wield.

"Ser Sumner says the greatest knights always died in battle," Jaime had told her. "A hero's death, fighting countless foes to defend their lord or their lady love."

Cersei had not liked the sound of that. "The greatest knight would defeat his foes and go back to his lady love, to live with her all his days."

"Don't be silly," her twin scoffed. "There's no glory in dying of old age."

There is no glory in dying at all. But the queen did not want to think of that. Jaime might refuse to hear the thoughts she'd meant to share, but he could not make her suffer them alone.

Instead, she thought of Casterly Rock. It was hers, hers as it always should have been. She was the eldest, the one meant to rule, Lord Tywin's rightful heir. She could almost see the Rock before her, an immense hill of golden stone that stretched two long leagues from west to east, and half a league north to south. From the right vantage point, it looked like a lion at rest, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

The ancient ringfort atop its peak was the least of its defenses. Watchtowers, walls, and gates guarded every approach; the Lion's Mouth, the main gate which lay to the south, had never been breached. Nor could the Rock be taken by siege, not when the western side of the Rock thrust against the Sunset Sea. Caverns lay beneath the rock, carved by the sea over thousands of years, so vast the ancient Kings of the Rock had built a port inside them, with docks and wharves and shipyards that would put those of Braavos to shame.

And the apartments within, oh... no palace in the world could equal their beauty. The leeward side of the Rock might stink from the mines and forges and the slovely peasants who toiled in them to bring forth gold, but the windward side was where the Kings of the Rock had carved out their domain. Fresh sea breezes danced through the windows and ventilation shafts, keeping the air from growing stale and close. The tapestries in the Golden Gallery always fluttered as they hung upon the gilded walls, drawing the eye away from the ornate statues which stood between them, sparkling with gold and gems, the work of dozens of master goldsmiths and jewelers over the centuries.

"Even across the narrow sea, men talk of the power of Casterly Rock," she heard Lady Joanna say. It was the oldest memory she recalled, somehow both faint and clear. Her mother stood between the twins, holding them firmly by the hand as she led them through the halls. Servants bowed or skittered away as they passed, as awed by their lady as they ought to be. It did not matter that Lord Tywin was away; his lady wife ruled the Rock, just as he ruled the Seven Kingdoms.

The Hall of Heroes was even more magnificent than Cersei had dreamed. Suits of empty armor stood guard over the bones of dead Lannisters, some scarred and dented from battle, some so gleaming and perfect it was if they were newly forged. As they walked through the hall, Mother told them of each armor, and of the Lannister who had worn it. The twins listened raptly, gasping at each feat of cunning or strength or skill.

Mother had liked that. She smiled each time Cersei asked questions, and laughed when Jaime declared he would be the best knight there ever was, even better than Lann the Clever.

"Lann the Clever wasn't a knight, sweetling," Mother had said. "He used his wits to defeat his foes. When he saw cave lions vanish into the Rock, he realized there must be a secret way within. In the dead of night, he stole inside, and for a year and a day he haunted the Casterlys, tricking them into fighting amongst themselves. When the last of the Casterly brothers slew each other, Lann claimed their sisters as his brides and the Rock as his domain."

"That's boring," Jaime huffed. "Lann must have been craven, or he would have fought them himself."

Busy staring at a golden sword, he did not see their mother frown, nor feel the air turn chill. Not until Mother yanked at their hands, her grip so tight it hurt as she dragged them away. They were not ready for the Hall of Heroes, she had said, not if they would dare insult the founder of their ancient line.

Cersei had thought that was unfair; Jaime was the one who had ruined things, not her. But when she started to cry, that had made it even worse. A lion did not weep, let alone in the hallways where anyone could hear. Mother had pinched her by the ear, scolding her in a soft, disappointed voice. When Cersei could not stop weeping, she had returned her to the nursery, and not come to see them again for a week.

That had been Cersei's fault; children were such little fools. But she had learned, learned faster than Jaime had. Mother wanted to be kind, and she was, but she couldn't be kind unless her children made her proud. Cersei had made her proud, so proud, until that day the wretched maid had caught her and Jaime...

And then the Imp had killed Mother, and Cersei could never make her proud again, nor see her smile. Aunt Genna smiled far too much, and Lord Tywin's smiles were much harder to earn than Lady Joanna's had been. He only smiled for Cersei, and then in secret. Not that she saw him much. Being King's Hand was no small task; he was more often at court than at home.

And when he was... Lord Tywin was a generous father, so long as you knew your place. That was the way of the world, where defiance was punished and obedience was rewarded. No girl in the Seven Kingdoms had finer gowns and jewels. The moment her riding master judged Cersei ready for a horse, Lord Tywin gave her the loveliest palfrey ever born, a dun mare with a chestnut mane, her tack and saddle embossed with gold and studded with tiny rubies, her bardings of crimson silk.

Cersei had never felt so powerful as when she sat astride that mare, wishing Prince Rhaegar could see how beautiful she looked, how well she kept her seat. Father had sworn she would wed the prince and be his queen, and Lord Tywin always got his way. Mad King Aerys's reign was doomed long before the Trident; it was doomed the moment he refused to wed his son to Lord Tywin's daughter.

But the strong always triumped over the weak, and Lord Tywin had his victory in the end. The son Aerys had stolen slit the Mad King's throat; the daughter he deemed unworthy of Rhaegar had wed the man who slew Rhaegar and claimed Aerys's throne. Cersei was queen, as she was always meant to be, and when Robert was dead, she had taken his throne and given it to her sons. No more must she suffer being gainsaid and balked; the rule was hers, and all must bend the knee or perish.

And so it would be again, she knew it. Cersei had lost King's Landing, but the Rock was where she would rise again, even stronger than before. A lioness was always most dangerous on her own lands; Cersei had known that all her life. How could she have forgotten?

By the day they rode into Lannisport, the queen's heart was almost light. A bustling port had plenty of inns, and even the middling ones had wine. It was Jaime who bade a flagon of sour red be brought to their little room, but it was Cersei who drank it, once she had barred the door. For the first time in weeks, her head felt clear, her hands as steady as the Rock itself.

Jaime did not seem to share her good humor. He was cold as ever when he returned from wandering the city, so cold that when they went down to the common room for dinner, a merchant's sniveling brats backed away in fear. So they should, the queen thought. They would never meet a more fearsome knight. Her twin might have lost one hand, but the other was just as deadly with the sword. No one else could have slain Ser Balon Swann and all his men; no one else could have been worthy of serving as her strong right hand when the Queen of the Rock raised her banners high.

"Shh, shh," the merchant said, crouching down. "You needn't be afraid, sweetlings. That's not an outlaw, that's a hedge knight."

"Is that his wife?" lisped the youngest child, a girl no more than three.

"No, dear," said the merchant. "Don't you see her robes? That's a silent sister; she's the Stranger's wife. The hedge knight is sworn to protect her, just like he's sworn to defend the weak."

And with that the merchant chivvied the children over to a table. The merchant's wife stayed behind, and dipped a sloppy curtsy to Jaime. "Pardons, ser, they didn't mean any harm." She dipped another curtsy to Cersei. "Pardons, sister, and may the Seven bless you for all that you do. Would you share our meal?"

Pleased by the show of deference, Cersei nodded. Nor did she regret her choice. Though the children pestered Jaime for stories, the merchant and his wife would not let them bother a holy sister. She enjoyed her meal unmolested, the best meal she'd had since leaving the Red Keep. She could not drink wine in the common room, but there was plenty of cider, and soft bread and butter, and a stew that actually had chunks of meat in it, well seasoned with garlic and herbs. The queen devoured every scrap, relishing the thought of the feast she would enjoy upon the morrow in the warmth of her own halls.

The next morning dawned cold and foggy. The grey nag's hooves clattered against the cobblestones as they rode down to the docks, down to the rowboat Jaime had hired. The fisherman barely glanced at Cersei as he took their coin; there were plenty of ships in the harbor who might have need of a silent sister to tend a fallen sailor.

Cersei was glad of the fog. The mist hid them from sight as Jaime rowed out, out past the fat cogs and stout carracks, past fishermen waiting by their nets, past the war galleys that had bottled up the port. Jaime had seen their banners flying when he prowled the docks, the three silver ships of the Farmans and the burgundy grapes of the Redwynes. They would pay for their treason soon enough, and when they did, it would taste sweet as Arbor Gold.

Waves rocked the little boat as Jaime rowed on, careful to cling to the coast. Whilst her brother kept watch for the rocks which littered the shallows by the shore, Cersei disrobed, almost giddy as she flung the hated robes into the sea. Gooseflesh pimpled her bare skin as she pulled on silken smallclothes and a silken shift, badly wrinkled from being crumpled in a saddlebag. Her gown was wrinkled too, but the black velvet hid most of the creases.

Her crown was as beautiful as ever as she set it atop her close-cropped curls; she only wished she had the rest of the jewels which went with it. Lacking anything else, she donned the thin golden chain, only to remember it looked poorly with her gown's neckline. Annoyed, she tucked the necklace beneath her gown, the slim blade of Brightroar cold and sharp against her skin as it hung between her breasts.

Lannisport was only a mile south of the Rock, yet it seemed as though Jaime had been rowing for ages by the time the mountain emerged from the thinning fog. The Rock ought to have shone golden in the sun, it ought to have struck awe into her heart. But the stone was as dull and grey as the sky, the hilltop and its ringfort shrouded by darkening clouds.

It will be beautiful on the morrow, Cersei told herself. There were golden days ahead; winter could not endure forever. That comforted her as Jaime steered for the caverns beneath the Rock. In the light of the flickering torches she could see the water marks that stained the walls, marking the changing of the tides. It was low tide now, when the salted scent of the sea was marred by a stink like rotten eggs. There was a faint stench of nightsoil too, much to the queen's displeasure. But that was nothing; she need never visit the docks again, not when she had those of Lannisport.

Most Kings of the Rock had preferred to sail from Lannisport, she recalled. The lowest levels were dark and dank, riddled with countless caverns where the ancient kings had built their dungeons and oubliettes. In later years, Loreon the Lackwit had flooded them in hopes of using them to raise fish. The fish had died, of course. His grandson Loreon V had the sense to drain the oubliettes, though not the sense to refrain from wearing his wife's clothes. Still later, Tyrion the Tormenter had used them to house common girls, who could only obtain their release if they proved strong enough to endure his tortures and skilled enough to please him during the bed sport that followed.

Fools, all of them. Their names would be forgotten, but hers never would. The singers would sing for a thousand years of Cersei, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Rock, Light of the West. She would lead her kingdom to the greatest heights it had ever known, greater than any King of the Rock ever had or ever could.

The red-cloaked guardsmen along the docks nearly leapt with fright when Jaime hailed them. Some hastened to help Cersei out of the rowboat; others ran to fetch the castellan. They ought to be on their knees, begging for the honor to escort us in, the queen thought, annoyed. But she was in a gracious mood; she could wait a little while. Still, she marked the guards' faces well; there would be plenty of time to reprimand them later.

It seemed an age before her cousins appeared. Willem and Martyn looked much the same as ever, identical twins who looked more like their chinless mother than like Uncle Kevan. Both wore handsome tunics of plush crimson velvet, though Willem had hung a golden chain of seven-pointed stars about his neck, and Martyn wore a sword at his hip.

"Your Grace," Willem said, sinking to one knee. Martyn knelt too, though stiffly, his face oddly blank as he looked at Jaime. "Welcome home."

Willem was the soul of courtesy. He was most gallant as he took her by the arm, and apologized immediately when she remarked upon the foul smell that clung to the tunnels. "That would be the sewage, I'm afraid, Your Grace. Despite my best efforts, the drains continue to cause problems, as you will recall from my letters."

Cersei did not recall, but that did not matter. She was more than willing to listen to his apologies, which were as lengthy as they were eloquent. He had plenty of time to make them; the tunnels beneath the Rock were long and tangled, winding hither and yon at whim. Many maesters had tried to map them without success. There were too many, all carved by generations long since dead. Oh, the largest tunnels were easy enough to map, but the smaller ones... some were wide enough for three men to ride abreast, but some were so narrow that horses could not fit, only men, and then only single file. And then there were the cave ins, the tunnels shrouded in cobwebs due to falling out of use, the tunnels at the furthest edges of the Rock where the mines had been emptied and no one ever went anymore. More than one foolish young Lannister had been lost in those tunnels, trying to find Lann's secret way.

Finally, the tunnel began to climb. Fresh breezes danced through the air; arrow slits began to appear in the walls, revealing a bleak winter sky. Torches danced merrily, clasped in the paws of gilded sconces shaped like lions; tapestries hung upon the walls, woven with the many exploits of Lann the Clever.

"I must beg your pardons yet again, Your Grace," Willem said, "but your old apartments are shut up, as are Ser Jaime's, and the lord's apartments too."

"The queen's apartments, now," Cersei reminded him. "Your solar will do, until they are ready."

"I will see to it at once, Your Grace," Willem promised.

The castellan's solar was warm and inviting, lit by dozens of beeswax candles. Whilst Willem went to see the steward about having the queen's apartments prepared, Cersei lounged upon a plush crimson couch, careful to lie on her side so her saddle sores did not ache so much. Her twin sat in a chair beside the fire, his swordbelt tossed haphazardly on the floor. Jaime hated using inferior steel; there were dozens of better swords awaiting him in the armory. One of them would serve until the queen had a new sword forged, one worthy of her brother's skill.

It was not long before a serving girl appeared, carrying a tray laden with a flag and three cups. The queen enjoyed her wine at a luxurious pace, savoring every sip of Arbor Gold as she waited for the cook to prepare their lunch. She felt almost herself again, more than equal to questioning Martyn as to the state of her domain, though Jaime kept interrupting with questions of his own.

Lord Lydden's siege continued much as it had these past months. The words of House Lydden were we wait below, but we wait outside would have been more accurate. The eastern side of the Rock was surrounded by traitorous lords and unwashed rabble, all thirsting for Lannister blood. They would die with that thirst unquenched; the Rock had never fallen, and never would, not whilst there yet lived a single Lannister to defend it.

No, Lydden would never set foot inside the Rock. Once she had raised an army of her own, Jaime would smash his pitiful host to pieces. A badger could never hope to match a lion. And when Lydden fell, then she would be free to turn on her other enemies. Dragonrider or not, Aegon Targaryen was but a man. Good assassins were not cheap, but they would be well worth it to toast the death of the last dragon and his little wolf wife. And once Aegon was dead, her enemies would tear each other apart, if they did not freeze or starve to death first. Or maybe the Others would get them; the notion was so droll she had to laugh.

The first flagon of wine ran dry shortly before lunch finally arrived, sometime around mid-afternoon. It was not quite the lavish feast she had imagined, only roast chicken, crisp and tender and spiced with saffron; carrots drizzled in honey; mounds of mashed turnips thick with butter and cream; hot-baked bread with hard sharp cheese, and a second flagon of Arbor gold to wash it all down. She almost felt as if she were floating in some pleasant dream as she watched Jaime question Martyn as to the garrison's dispositions, her belly full, her headaches and tremors a thing of the past.

The queen had forgotten about Willem entirely until a knock came at the door, prompting her to rise from the table. At last, her apartments must be ready. A bath was all she needed to make her day complete, a proper bath with sweet perfumes and an obedient maid to scrub her from head to toe and soothe all her hurts with oils and creams.

"Enter!" Cersei called, stretching her arms before covering a yawn. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Martyn stand, hovering behind Jaime's chair. That was odd; why would he—

Then Mordryd Lydden walked through the door.

A heartbeat, a crash, and it was too late. By the time Jaime rose from the floor, having won his wrestling match with Martyn, Lydden guardsmen already held Cersei fast, with a dagger pointed at her throat. More guardsmen seized her brother, whilst Willem saw to his. Martyn had a split lip, thanks to Jaime's iron hand, and when he turned his head he spat out a tooth. Her Jaime was unmarked, save for a bruise that would soon become a black eye.

"You know," Mordryd Lydden said, with an air of faint bemusement, "despite myself, I'm impressed. I never dreamt I would be so fortunate as to catch the lions in their own den. I thought you'd be taken long before you could reach the Rock. The Seven are good indeed, to grant me such an unexpected boon."

"And I'll be so good as to grant you a quick death," Jaime snarled. "Single combat, you and me. Or do you lack the guts for it?"

Mordryd Lydden raised an eyebrow, regarding Jaime as a maester might regard some arcane but useless artifact. "The guts for what, suicide? I heard what you did to Ser Balon Swann, and I was never one for reckless folly even when I was young. I have waited many years for this moment, ser, and I do not intend to squander it.

"Craven," Jaime spat. "You—"

"Gag him," Lydden said, as casually as if he faced a mewling kitten, not a roaring lion. "I grow weary of the Kingslayer's tongue." He glanced at Cersei. "Must we gag you too, or will you keep silent, my lady?"

Your Grace, Cersei thought, her fists clenching with rage as she nodded. She could be silent, but Lydden would die screaming for this. Her nails bit into her palms as the guards muzzled Jaime, tying the gag tight between his teeth.

"Oh, if only Lord Tywin were here," Lydden sighed. "Though I suppose his heart would have burst with sheer outrage by now. Ah, well. I suppose a pair of lesser lions must suffice."

Lesser? Cersei would have slapped him, were the guardsmen not gripping her arms.

"If the gods are good," Lydden continued, "perhaps he can hear and see us, even from the blackest pit of the seven hells. I hope so. He deserves to watch, just as Gwen deserves to watch from her place in the seven heavens."

Cersei stared at him, bewildered; through his gag, Jaime made a noise of confusion.

Lydden's face turned hard. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? No, I suppose not. You were not yet born when Castamere drowned. Kevan did not remember, not even when I challenged him to his face, even though he was there. I was not, yet I cannot forget, not since the day the raven came."

It seemed that Mordryd Lydden had once had a sister. He was a boy of thirteen when Gwendolyn Lydden left to visit their aunt at Castamere, a journey from which she had never returned. No matter that the fool should have fled the moment the Reynes decided to revolt against Lord Tywin. No, her death was Lord Tywin's fault, as if he should have offered traitors mercy for the sake of one lackwit maid.

"So many nights, I dream my sister drowning," Lydden said, pacing before the hearth. "The water rises, and Gwen weeps, and I cannot help her, no matter what I do. We could not even grant her the simple decency of a burial, nor give alms so that septas and holy sisters would pray for her. Seven days of quiet mourning was all my lord father would allow, and then it was as if Gwen had never existed. Angry as he was at the affront to our house, my father saw the chance to rise now that the Reynes and Tarbecks had fallen. Speaking of Gwen would not bring her back, but it could jeopardize those plans. And so I bit my tongue, and waited, waited for the day to come when I would have my chance to avenge her."

"Years passed. I grew to manhood, I wed, I sired children, all the while waiting for the gods to grant me justice. But Tywin's power only rose; I could not touch the Hand of the King, the Lord of Casterly Rock. I was only a third son, bound to live by my father's whims. And I had no wish to attempt ill-conceived schemes, though some others tried in the aftermath of Castamere. They paid for their failure with their lives, and Gwen would not have wanted me to die for her."

"When the War of the Five Kings began soon after my father's death, I thought the gods had finally heard my prayers. Surely Stannis Baratheon would see to Lord Tywin, if Renly or the Starks did not get him first. Alas, Robb Stark was not so obliging, though he did have the courtesy to get my eldest brother killed in the Battle of Sweetroot."

Lydden's face contorted with rage. "Lewys never gave a fig about Gwen; he said it was her own fault for not fleeing when she had the chance." Cersei decided that she liked Lewys Lydden. "With Lewys dead, the lordship passed to my brother Joffrey. We both toasted when the raven came bearing word of Tywin's death, but the wine tasted bitter. A shadowy assassin sent by a red priestess was not justice, it was not vengeance." It was not what happened, Cersei resisted the urge to add.

"And so when Joffrey insisted we welcome Lord Tywin's funeral train to the Rock, I snapped. It was not the first time he had put his own advancement before Gwen's memory, but it was the last I could abide. Joffrey had mourned her more than Lewys, but he barely spoke of her as the years went on, and he never missed the chance at Lannister hospitality."

"Well, the Seven might command me to obey my elder brother, but they also commanded me to be generous to the poor. When I noted the discontent simmering toward revolt, I encouraged it in what small ways I could. Joffrey was an incompetent ruler, more concerned with his cook and his tailor than with managing Deep Den. When he did intervene, it was with the same brutality he had learned at Lord Tywin's table, though unlike Lord Tywin, he had the courage to do his dirty work himself. He had been lord for two years when they flung his body at the gates of Deep Den, a seven-pointed star carved on his brow. I did not mourn; my brother was dead to me the day Joffrey forced me to stand by his side as he sang funeral hymns in the Hall of Heroes."

Lydden spat. "Hero indeed. Oathbreaker, murderer, craven, more like, damn him. Well, he enjoys his gilded tomb no longer. Whilst you dined, I entered the Hall of Heroes. It was the work of a moment for my men to pry open the tomb. Lord Tywin's bones looked the same as any other man's; it's a wonder he did not give orders that they be gilded. His tomb is empty now. As Gwen's bones were never laid to rest, it was only fitting Tywin endure the same fate."

"What did you do to him?" Cersei demanded, the words bursting from her lips before she could stop herself.

Lydden shrugged. "I had thought of having them buried in an unmarked grave amongst the common rabble, but that seemed too much work, and I was eager to see you before you realized aught was amiss. There was a privy close at hand; I tossed the bones down the shaft myself."

"And you let him?" Cersei snarled, aghast at Willem's treachery.

"He did," Lydden replied. "Once I agreed to spare his father's bones the same fate. Kevan was never the leader, only the follower. That was why I gave him a gentle death, tart and sweet as blackberry wine. But not half so sweet as seeing the utter ruin of all Tywin's works, his legacy kicked to splinters. I had only hoped to cause what trouble I could, but Princess Rhaenys hinted at even greater opportunities, if I had the will to finally seize my chance."

Lydden smiled, foul and dark as the depths of hell. "King Aegon has more than delivered upon her promises. Not only do I get to enjoy the downfall of House Lannister, but I get to claim Casterly Rock as mine own. I daresay this night will be the finest sleep I have had since I was a boy of three-and-ten. You, on the other hand... there will be no gilded cage for Lord Tywin's whelps. The oubliettes will serve, one for each of you, but never fear, you will not be forgotten. After you rotted for a few days, you shall be taken back to King's Landing to be tried and executed for your crimes." The smile widened. "I can hardly wait to watch."

"You won't," Cersei flung back, defiant, but Lydden had already turned away.

"Ser Willem, if you will have the servants prepare the lord's chambers? Though you'd best send a few of my men to fetch my things from my pavilion. I am quite happy to claim Tywin's bed, but I have no taste for crimson sheets." He glanced at Cersei and Jaime. "Oh, and you may take them away, if you please. Don't dawdle, though; King Aegon will wish to receive the raven with your surrender at once."

And so a squad of Lydden guardsmen marched them first to the steward's chambers, then to the hall where a hundred Lydden men-at-arms stood waiting. A few of them carried banners, some blazoned with the Lydden badger, others with words. Oathbreaker, murderer, craven. She could have spit with fury at that, and at how they jeered and laughed as they pointed at Jaime. He was gagged and bound, his false hand and his real one locked in manacles joined by a short length of chain. Jaime had tried to resist being chained, had even broken free long enough to seize her in a bruising kiss before they dragged him off her. They had not bothered to chain Cersei; she held her head high as the men yelled taunts, praying the guardsmen did not notice the thin red line against her neck, nor the glint of gold in Jaime's hand.

Granted, one could not see much as they descended into the lower tunnels. There were no torches in the sconces on the walls; the guards had to carry their own. They let Cersei carry one too, lest she trip on the uneven ground and hurt herself.

"We don't need any distractions," their captain grumbled. "Keep your swords and your eyes on the Kingslayer; he might still be fool enough to try something."

Brave enough, more like, Cersei thought. Jaime was already up to something, and it was up to her to make sure no one had the wits to notice. Besides, she had held her tongue long enough; she was more than ready to unleash her fury on her treasonous cousins.

"How dare you," she hissed, so venomous that Willem actually recoiled from her. "How dare you turn against your kin, how dare you betray us to the man who slew your father?"

"Father deserved it," Martyn said, cold as ice. "A man has a right to vengeance."

"Castamere was an affront to all the laws of gods and men," Willem said, even colder. "And Father stood by and did nothing, because he worshipped Tywin above all else, even the Seven. The Seven shall judge whether Lord Lydden's vengeance was a sin; at least he granted our father a merciful death. The women and children of Castamere received no such mercy. House Lannister is tainted by Lord Tywin's crimes, and if we do not repent, that taint will be washed away in dragonfire."

Cersei could not believe what she was hearing. "The Rock cannot be taken; a dragon could never get in."

"But dragonflame could, through a thousand windows and vents. Tell me, have you ever seen Harrenhal? Our lady mother says the tops of the towers are naught but molten slag."

"Dorna Swyft," the queen said, "is a frightened hen with the spine of a jellied eel."

"Even if she is, she's still a better woman than you are," Willem flung back. "The Seven-Pointed Star bids a wife be faithful and obedient, a loving mate to help her husband with his labors. Yet as soon as Robert had your maidenhead, you conspired at adultery, incest, and treason! And you!" He whirled on Jaime. "Violence against children is one of the vilest sins, especially for one who has sworn the vows of a knight! Knights are supposed to protect the weak and helpless, not fling them out of windows to their deaths! Have you no honor, have you no heart?"

"He has a heart," Cersei cried. "And it is mine. Jaime was protecting me, he loves me as no man ever loved a woman! We are one soul in two bodies; when we were born, he was clutching me by the foot. He has never loved anyone but me, has never so much as glanced at another. He had my maidenhead, not Robert; we were wed in our hearts long before I ever endured that drunken sot's unwanted touch. The Targaryens wed brother to sister for hundreds of years; why should we be condemned for doing the same?"

The queen paused for breath, her chest heaving. A faint clinking echoed off the walls as Jaime fidgeted with his manacles, prompting one of the guards to laugh and mock him for losing his nerve. Though Jaime stopped fidgeting, her heart was in her throat, terrified that the guard would look closer—

"The Targaryens shouldn't have done it either," Willem insisted, so loud the guards turned and looked for a moment. "Paul the Pious was right; incest is an abomination. King Aegon could have burned you for your crimes, he could have had you flayed or torn, but instead he offered to let you live, so long as you surrendered! The Wall and the motherhouse would have been your fate, a gentler fate than either of you deserved, but rather than accept such a generous offer, you burned down half the city!"

"Do you know what it looks like, when a child is burned? Do you know how many perished in the flames, or choked to death on smoke?" The veins in his neck and forehead bulged; Willem was almost as red as his tunic, utterly oblivious to Jaime's fidgeting, which had resumed once his shouting covered the clinking of his chains.

"I had rather not burn in the seven hells," Martyn growled, "but if I do, it will be for my own sins, not yours."

"You'll never hold us," Cersei taunted. "The Rock is filled with loyal retainers; they will free us the moment your back is turned."

"We will not turn our backs," Willem said. "You will be guarded by Lydden men, night and day, until the time comes for you to depart. King Aegon's terms were harsh, but we must accept them. The Rock and all its lands and incomes will go to the Lyddens, after we pay a heavy weregild for the crimes of House Lannister. All of us will keep our lives—"

A burst of hysterical laughter escaped the queen. "What, all two of you?" A thought occurred to her. "Where is Aunt Genna? Does she know of this? She will not stand for it, I promise you!"

"Aunt Genna," Martyn replied, "fled to the Free Cities almost as soon as word came of King Aegon's coming. She took her husband and her sons, and a ship laden with as much gold as it could carry. The servants are fond of her; we knew nothing until Willem found the note she left on his desk."

They were descending lower, down into the dark. The tunnels twisted and turned, almost as if they were doubling back upon themselves, so narrow that only two could walk abreast. They began to pass by cramped cells, their iron grates rusting away. The stench of nightsoil assailed her nose, stronger than before.

"I suggest," Willem said grimly, "that you meditate on your sins, and pray the Seven take mercy upon you. King Aegon certainly will not."

Cersei glanced at Jaime. He nodded, the motion so small she almost missed it. "Oh!" She cried, reeling as if she swooned. By instinct, Willem tried to catch her, every eye on the queen rather than on her brother.

The manacles fell to the floor, Brightroar's golden blade gleaming in the lock. The first guard was dead before he realized Jaime had taken his sword; the second died just as easy, blood spurting from his throat. Jaime was a whirlwind, a wonder, his sword flashing in the torchlight. Martyn was no match for him, not even if he had been wearing armor instead of velvet. Jaime's sword plunged through his chest, and when it caught, Jaime left it there.

A backhanded blow from his iron hand, and Willem let go of Cersei. Jaime seized her by the hand, pulling her deeper into the dark, her torch their only light. They could not go back the other way, not with half the guards in hot pursuit as Willem screamed at the rest to go get help.

They ran, ran as fast as they could. The guards were slow, slow and wary, and soon fell slightly behind When the tunnel split, Cersei took the lower path, knowing the guards would assume they took the higher. Down, down into the dark they went, splashing through puddles that only grew bigger with every subsequent turn they took. When at last they heard no sounds save themselves, they paused a moment to catch their breath. Jaime ripped his gag off, his chest heaving as he panted.

"There must be a way out," he muttered. One eye was green and open wide, the other black and swollen shut. It was a hideous sight, one she had hoped to never see again. "We will not die down here."

"Of course not," Cersei told him, swallowing back bile as the stench of nightsoil grew stronger. She raised her torch. "This way."

Long hours passed as they walked through the dark. The puddles grew deeper and more frequent, no matter which way they went. Jaime began to argue with her, yanking her one way rather than another. The tunnels grew smaller and more cramped, so cramped they must go single file.

The water was at her ankles now, thick and black, with a stench so sharp her eyes watered. It was even harder to choose a path with her vision blurred, but wiping her eyes only made it worse. An awful sound began to rise through the tunnels, a low roar that ebbed and flowed, growing ever louder. Once she thought she heard a girl's voice, echoing as if from the bottom of a well, and the queen cried out, afraid.

"It's just the tide coming in," Jaime snapped. "Come on, this way."

This way was yet another tunnel, so small they could barely fit. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs; veins of gold gleamed faintly in the walls. This could be Lann's way, Cersei thought, her heart racing with excitement. Wouldn't that be a story for the singers! The last of Lann's true heirs, escaping treachery by the same route he had once used to find his way in. She could almost forget the murmuring of the tide as it tickled at her calves, forcing her to wade rather than walk, her torch held high.

The water was at her knees when they reached the cave-in. Piles of fallen rock blocked the tunnel, some dark and dull, some sparkling with flecks of gold. Behind her, Jaime halted, the water sloshing about his legs.

"We have to clear it," Jaime said, as if she had not already thought of that. "Before the tide rises any higher."

"I'll do it," Cersei insisted, stepping forward before he could try to get around her. Seven forbid Jaime begin seizing rocks at random and bring the roof of the tunnel crashing down about their ears. Such an ignominious end was not befitting of a queen; she would not have Jaime doom them both.

And so she set to work. One hand held her torch; the other pried at the stones, though only after careful consideration. It was hard work, made harder by the stench. The tide is not all we are standing in. But Cersei must not think of that; nothing mattered but clearing the path ahead. They certainly could not go back. She paused for a moment, frowning, still holding a rock in her hand as she tried to decide which rock to remove next—

"I was the one who told Tywin about us."

The rock fell to the ground with a plop. "You did what?" Cersei hissed. She chose her next rock at whim, and yanked at it with unwonted venom until it came loose.

"Father meant to marry you off, no matter what I said. I was sick of his orders, sick of having to live a lie."

"Sick of using your wits, more like." She yanked another rock, resisting the temptation to fling it at Jaime's head. "All those long years you were gone, and we could have been together, if only you had not been so rash! I was so lonely; I did not even have Lancel to com—" she bit her tongue, so hard she tasted coppery blood. Gods, what was she thinking? The rocks, she must focus on the rocks.

"How did Lancel comfort you, pray tell?" Jaime asked, his voice dangerous.

"Not so well as you did, but better than nothing," the queen spat. "I would have rather had you, were you not rotting in Riverrun's dungeons." She seized another stone.

"I kissed Brienne of Tarth."

Cersei laughed, the sound echoing off the walls until it sounded like some old crone's cackle. "Why, were there no cows to be had? At least Aurane Waters was pretty."

"You fucked him too?"

"More than once," Cersei said, grasping for another rock. "I did not know if you were alive or dead for four years! I missed you so much; I was alone, scared, frightened that any day might be Tommen's last."

"Poor sister, so helpless without me." This time it was Jaime who laughed. "However did you survive until my return?"

"I wasn't helpless," Cersei flared. "I survived Eddard Stark, no thanks to you. Mace Tyrell and his plotting, Varys and his simpering, even the Imp..." she laughed bitterly. "And he wasn't even the valonqar, in the end, but how was I to know Aegon Targaryen would return from the dead?"

"The valonqar?"

Cersei hesitated, biting her lip as she chose her next stone. The prophecy could not hurt her now. No matter how angry Jaime might be over Lancel and Aurane, he would still defend her from Aegon, just as he always had.

"When I was small, I went to see a witch woman in Lannisport, to hear her tell my future. She said I would be slain by the valonqar, the little brother. I thought she meant Tyrion."

"Tyrion?" Jaime asked, confused. "Why would you fear Tyrion? There are thousands of little brothers in the world. You might as well have feared the Hound, or Loras Tyrell."

"How could I not fear Tyrion?" As Cersei groped for another rock, the words spilled out like poison from a wound. How the Imp had sworn to serve her, then betrayed her at every turn. How he had stolen Myrcella, how he had sent away Kevan, how he had plotted with the High Septon to steal Tommen from her.

"I could not let him have my son," she explained, her eyes filling with tears. "And so I had my men seize his whore. I promised she would be safe so long as Tommen was safe, and for that Tyrion broke my arm. When I wept for mercy, he swore that if I ever crossed him again, he would choke the life from me himself, and I believed him... but I survived the Imp, in the end. He was no valonqar, only a dwarf that no one ever loved."

The tunnel was silent, save for the murmuring of the tide. Stone by stone, Cersei worked at clearing the path; after all her toil, she finally had a hole almost big enough for a clenched fist, a hole that almost seemed to breathe as the wind brought a draft of fresh air into the fetid depths of the tunnel.

"—as safe as you kept me," Jaime whispered, so low she could barely hear. Confused, Cersei turned, her torch in one hand and a rock in the other. Jaime's face was a mask of despair; tears streamed down his cheeks.

"What?" she asked.

Jaime advanced, his face hard. No, no, he could not know, no one knew, even that stammering squire had not suspected. "I loved Tyrion." The queen took a step back, but there was nowhere to go. "And you of all people, sister, should know the things I do for love."

And then his hand was around her throat. Breathless, she flailed. An iron hand knocked aside her torch; in an instant all was darkness. Jaime never saw the rock in her other hand, but he felt it, when she brought it down with her all might and smashed it against his skull.

A groan, a splash, and suddenly, she could breathe again. The queen clutched at her throat, gasping and wheezing; her vision blazed with dancing stars.

No, she tried to say, but her voice would not come. Her throat was on fire, the pain worse than any she'd ever felt. No, Jaime, I didn't mean to, I didn't, you made me, I had to!

The queen reeled; only the walls of the tunnel kept her from falling as she coughed. She was frightened, so frightened, but a lion must not weep. The cave-in, she must clear the cave-in. She would not die down here in the dark with the whirling stars, she would not die with Jaime. He had betrayed her, but she didn't need him, she didn't need anyone. She was the Light of the West, and a fire would never go out so long as it had fuel and air—

Coughing hurt, it hurt so much, but she could not stop. She would rest a moment, just long enough to catch her breath. What was she doing? She could not remember. Something heavy floated in the stinking sewage, brushing against her waist. Whatever it was, it would not have the queen. Something else had her though, some invisible hand that clenched tight around her throat. Dizzy, she was so dizzy, so dizzy she fell to her knees. No, no, a queen never knelt. The water only swallowed her up to the neck; why did her eyes feel wet? Her skin was cold; the stars had gone, leaving nothing in their place but for the pain as she coughed and choked—

And then the coughing stopped, and Cersei Lannister knew no more.

---

so, uh. Holy shit. This was a long time coming, and I think it turned out well. Let me know what you think in the comments!

Thus ends Part V, Arc 1: The War for the Throne. There are only 24 chapters left, plus an epilogue and an appendix with an art gallery and all the TWQ memes people have sent me. I'm so excited!

Reminder, you can find me on tumblr @redwolf17. Also, if anyone feels like updating the TWQ TvTropes page, feel free. I loooove seeing what people put on there

If you want to know the full story of Mordryd Lydden's grudge, check out A Drowning Grief.

Up Next

Part V, Arc 2: The War for the Dawn

167: Bran III

168: Olyvar III

169: Jon III

170: Arya III

NOTES

1) I have so, so many thoughts about Cersei. Hilarious as it can be to watch Cersei shoot herself in the foot while being bitchy, at heart she is a tragedy, a victim trapped by Tywin's awful parenting, by the sexism of Westeros, and by her own hubris. But all her suffering turns to hatred; she almost never sees the pain of others, only her own, and lashes out when challenged. Cersei refuses to admit her mistakes; everything is always someone else's fault. She cannot trust, she cannot love, except in her very limited family circle. Even then, her love is erratic and selfish; she is abusive to her children and to her siblings because she was raised in a toxic environment and absorbed it rather than questioning or rejecting it.

2) Alcohol withdrawal symptoms are NASTY. Cersei isn't fully off the wagon, but being limited to small quantities of weak beer at night means she is getting far less alcohol than when she was sipping lots of wine all day.

3) Fun trivia: Gyb was a popular medieval cat name.

4) Lydden's rude banners were inspired by this flag from the English Civil War, which mocked the Earl of Essex's well known marital difficulties.

5) I was still mulling over Lydden's cameo when I got this utterly wild ask about Tywin's corpse being disrespected. Thank you so much, anon, bravo for an incredible idea :D I hope you like what I did with it!

6) I really, REALLY dislike the trope of a sympathetic man killing a female romantic partner either "for her own good" and/or because she's evil. It's one thing for a male hero to kill a female villain; it is quite another to depict the worst possible end result of domestic violence as a good thing.

As such, I was extremely careful with handling the valonqar prophecy. Jaime trying to kill Cersei is not a heroic act! Attacking her won't bring back Tyrion, not to mention the fact that from Cersei's point of view, killing Tyrion was rational and justified. Tyrion broke her arm! He threatened to choke her to death! Heck, even without the valonqar prophecy, that's fucking terrifying!

Further, I seriously doubt that if Jaime kills Cersei in canon it will be portrayed in a good light. I swear, people forget that in ASOS and AFFC, Jaime doesn't turn against Cersei because of her violence and hatred, he turns against her because she refuses to publicly acknowledge their relationship (which would be MONUMENTALLY suicidal) and because he knows she has been unfaithful.

Yes, their relationship already had problems due to them both being selfish, awful at communicating, and prone to sexually assaulting each other, but the repetition of "she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know..." and the repeated misogynistic thoughts about Cersei being a whore are... ominous. Granted, Jaime doesn't know that Cersei had 0 interest in Kettleblack and only let him fuck her to keep him loyal, which is so sad and gross. Cersei groomed and raped Lancel, but with Kettleblack, she suffers sex she does not want in service of trying to wield power by using her "woman's weapons."

7) Occasionally, I've seen people say that I/TWQ hates the Lannisters. Frankly, I disagree? They're fascinating, complex villains, and really fun to write. That being said, I hew to their book characterization, which is quite dark, not the extremely whitewashed show canon which pervades a lot of fanfic. Tywin is an abusive, violent monster, and his children are not only tragedies but their own worst enemies. Yes, the Starks and Olyvar and Lydden get various wins against them, but their fatal flaws are what doom them.

Tyrion dies partially because of the wildfire (which he inflicted on his own men!), and partially because of Cersei, whom he imprudently antagonized to her breaking point. Tywin is killed by Jaime because of his abusive parenting; Jaime is set off both by Tywin's refusal to mourn Tyrion, and by his threat to maim Cersei and take her away from Jaime.

Jaime dies because he repeatedly chose stagnation over growth and selfish ego over self-reflection. In Meereen, his imprisonment was relatively comfortable. He could have asked for books, for materials to try out hobbies. He could have learned and developed into a version of himself beyond the Kingslayer. Instead, he did nothing but swordwork for 4 years, determined to return to the status of greatest swordsman in Westeros. Jaime never truly faced his crimes, his faults; his attempts at redemption were built on quicksand, and soon abandoned when Brienne rejected him.

Cersei dies because she is so vengeful and shortsighted that she accidentally weds Sansa to Aegon, so desperate and greedy for power that she kills or alienates many of her allies, and so convinced of her own superiority that she cannot accept that she has lost. The twins end up trapped by the sewage because they refused to accept accountability for all they had done, to face trial and execution. The sewage represents the internal rot of House Lannister, which Cersei repeatedly ignored, leaving it to her castellans to worry about. Finally, Cersei is mortally wounded by Jaime as vengeance for Tyrion; her attempts to violently prevent the valonqar prophecy were what made it come true.