Late August, 300 AC

Cersei I

The queen rose with the sun, the light gleaming golden through her windows. Maegor's Holdfast boasted four towers, one for each point of the compass, and the eastern tower belonged to the queen. A petty slight, to give the Light of the West the eastern tower, but Robert was such a fool that the insult might have escaped him. Besides, my sun is rising too, Cersei thought as her maid helped her into her tub.

By the time the queen was bathed and dressed it was time for morning prayers. Her knees ached against the hard floor of the royal sept, but piety was expected of a queen. As the septon droned and as rainbows danced across the altar, Cersei bowed her head.

Seven, help me, the queen prayed. The gods had been good enough to take Lancel and his secrets to the grave, just as they had taken the wretched Imp and his schemes. And when Lord Tywin had bade her wed again...

Perhaps today the gods would smile upon her once more. Jaime, send me Jaime. He would never abandon her; some vile conspiracy had stolen her twin the night Lord Tywin died. Perhaps the same men who killed Tywin Lannister had taken his son. Even now Jaime languished in some dark cell, awaiting ransom or rescue. They could not have killed him, I would have known. We entered the world together; we will leave it together. Cersei prayed until her knees were raw, but if the gods were listening, they gave no sign.

After the cold drafts of the sept, it was a pleasure to return to her chambers, where her son awaited her beside the fire, cats gamboling at his feet. While Tommen lamented the absence of a ginger tomcat with the embarrassing name of Buttons, Senelle poured Cersei a goblet of hot spiced cider before hurrying to fetch the morning meal.

"I am sure Buttons is quite safe," Cersei reassured her son gravely. How does he tell the damned beasts apart? There must be a dozen by now. "Tomcats are apt to wander." Off mounting some yowling cat in heat, no doubt. Beast or man, they all answered to those worms between their legs.

Tommen's smile returned shortly before Senelle did. They broke their fast on gently boiled eggs, fresh bread, crisp bacon, and tart blood oranges. Some Dornish knight had shown Tommen how to eat an orange with his dagger, carving away the peel in one long strip. Her son only ate half the orange before he was distracted by dangling the long peel so the cats could bat at it.

Cersei sipped her cider, well contented. The cooks had done their duty; the yolks oozed onto the soft brown bread, golden against the pale cream of newly churned butter. She ate up every bite, knowing she would need her strength. Without Jaime, she was Tommen's only protector, but she was a lioness of the Rock. She could be fierce for her cub. Cersei had dealt with Ned Stark, she had kept King's Landing together against Stannis's fury, she had avenged Joffrey when no one else would. She had not dreamt of her firstborn for a week, not since the wedding.

Enjoy your husband, Lady Sansa, she thought, a smile curling at her lips as Senelle admitted the Lord Hand. What girl would ever want a man with dirt brown skin and pitch black hair, when she might have one as golden as he was fair? Most maidens would choose a handsome king over a brutish bastard; you brought this on yourself when you betrayed Joffrey.

"It is good to see you smile again, niece," Ser Kevan Lannister said, his voice weary.

Her uncle's square chin jutted from his face, jowls sagging beneath his close-cropped yellow beard. He had always been thick of waist, even when she was a little girl, but since Lord Tywin's death he seemed shrunken, fat slowly melting away to be replaced by wrinkles. A sheaf of parchments were in his fist; papers for Tommen to sign and stamp with the royal seal.

"You are too kind, nuncle," Cersei said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Lancel's death had sent Ser Kevan to his knees; Lord Tywin's death might be the end of him, if she was not careful. I should have Pycelle see to him; there are no other men I can trust as my Hand. "How fares the realm?"

Small council meetings were a tedious business that she left to Ser Kevan. Cersei had attended them herself, until she realized that Lady Margaery spent those hours beguiling her son. The queen was no man's fool to sit by and let her lion cub be turned into a rose's pet kitten.

"Poorly," Ser Kevan said, presenting a parchment to Tommen while Senelle warmed the wax. "The Citadel is unsure how long autumn will last. Even with only three realms to feed..."

"Tommen is King of the Seven Kingdoms," the queen flashed. Her uncle sighed.

"So he is. But unless Your Grace intends to send grain to Robb Stark or Stannis Baratheon-"

"I take your meaning," Cersei said, hiding her irritation as Tommen affixed the royal seal to the first parchment. "Let them have their King of Winter; those traitors will soon wish they'd never heard of the Starks."

Callow youths were not meant to rule. While the Young Wolf feasted on red meat in Winterfell with his lickspittles, the rest of his followers would be lucky to get a few bones. By spring the Vale and the Riverlands would be begging to bend the knee to the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Prince Oberyn assures me that Dorne can feed itself; Mace Tyrell said the same of the Reach. As for the Westerlands-"

Cersei waved a dismissive hand. "My father trusted his bannermen, as shall I. Let them prepare for winter as they always have, with the blessings of the Lady of Casterly Rock."

"As you wish. King's Landing, though..." her uncle looked troubled. "Feeding the city shall prove most difficult. There were close to half a million before the war; the famine has taken thousands, perhaps one in five of the city's poor."

There are still too many useless mouths to feed. The queen tossed her golden locks, flashing her uncle a merry smile. Let him see that the lioness was not easily daunted.

"Why, nuncle, what of our good friends of Highgarden?"

She did not trust the Tyrells, but they were always eager to trade their ample harvest for gold. Upjumped stewards, the lot of them, no better than merchants. That reminded her, she was due to sup with the richest members of the merchant guilds. I must have the maids prepare one of my finest gowns. There was nothing like crimson silk and cloth-of-gold to put the merchants' wives in their place and show their husbands the wealth of Casterly Rock.

"Mace Tyrell may have had his men pass out bread in Margaery's name after the Blackwater, but that was a mere gesture. The city requires hundreds of tons of grain each day; most comes from the crownlands, but the rest came down the Blackwater Rush from the riverlands."

Cersei frowned. "The Imp said the Tyrells caused the famine."

"Closing the roseroad did not help," her uncle admitted, one hand pressed to his temple. "But as to feeding the city, without the riverlands—"

The queen kissed Ser Kevan on the brow. "I am sure you will find a way. I do not know what I would do without you, uncle." She waited for Tommen to set his quill aside before running a hand through her son's golden curls. "Tommen, you must be grateful; few kings have been blessed with so faithful a Lord Hand."

"Thank you, great-uncle," the little king said solemnly, his green eyes earnest.

When Ser Kevan departed, parchments in hand, Ser Addam Marbrand escorted the little king to Grand Maester Pycelle. She would not have Tommen be such a fool as Robert. Besides, Lady Margaery could hardly work her wiles if the king was busy at his lessons.

Luncheon was a tedious affair with her ladies. Cersei made the mistake of letting Cerissa Brax say the prayer, and the woman made a meal of it, thanking the gods for the food before them and begging mercy for the beloved dead. When the prayer finally ended Lady Cerissa had the impudence to grasp the queen's hand and attempt to commiserate over their losses. As if your father and brothers were worth half as much as Lord Tywin.

"We share your sorrow," Cersei said impatiently, "but as we yet live, the gods doubtless will understand if we eat our meal before it grows cold."

Cerissa took the rebuke with ill grace, a tear dripping down her cheek as she began to eat. Jocelyn Swyft could not manage more than two bites of boar without making some insipid remark, while Melesa Crakehall was mercifully quiet, spearing tidbits on her dagger with a glower upon her doughy face.

Only Darlessa Marbrand provided some small entertainment with her japes about the lustiness of Dornish bastards. She was more ill-tempered than her nephew, Ser Addam Marbrand, but her late Uncle Tygett had appreciated his wife's biting wit. Cersei found her comments amusing, so long as Darlessa was wise enough to save her witticisms for when no Dornish were present to take offense.

Afternoon found the queen making her way across the yard, pausing briefly to watch the knights ride at the quintain. Tommen would still be dressing for their ride through the city; she had forbade him to risk his neck jousting. Ser Aron Santagar, the master-at-arms, knew his place and did not object. She was grateful for that when Ser Tallad the Tall spilled from the saddle, wincing in pain as a squire helped him to his feet. Ser Loras did far better, striking the shield hard and clean. Lady Margaery and her little hens cheered like dockside whores, and Cersei favored the youth with a smile.

The queen could afford to be magnanimous. Lord Mace had finally agreed that the king's wedding could wait until the realm was put aright; she could still taste the sweetness of that victory. Let Lady Margaery busy her little head with plots; a betrothal could be set aside. Almost as sweet was the fact that the wretched Queen of Thorns had departed for Highgarden the day after Sansa Stark's wedding, taking her crippled grandson with her. The queen would not miss the old woman's sour breath and sharp comments, no more than she would miss seeing the cripple limp about awkwardly with his cane.

Small wonder that Mace Tyrell favored his third son. Ser Loras was all grace as he dismounted from his sweat-streaked chestnut mare, patting her neck fondly as he took her by the reins.

"Well ridden," Prince Oberyn said, clapping the youth on the shoulder. Ser Loras removed his helm, eyeing the Dornishman suspiciously. "That was one of Jonquil's fillies, yes? Willas said he gave you one as a name day gift."

"Her name is Windflower," the youth retorted.

The queen barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. Jaime rode stallions, like most bold knights. Brightroar had been his first, a destrier as golden as Jaime, but that horse had died in some tourney mishap, and he stopped naming them. Her twin would never give a mount such a feeble name as Windflower.

"She certainly flies like the wind," the Red Viper said, stroking the mare's nose, his black eyes gleaming. His dark olive skin shone in the afternoon sun, as did the streaks of silver that marred his lustrous black hair.

Half of the Dornishmen had gone home with the Red Viper's bastard and his wolf bride; even the serpent's whore had gone. Prince Oberyn, however, seemed quite determined to keep his seat on the small council. Only the greybeards remained to keep him company; doubtless he had sent the younger, comelier ones away due to vanity. One of the Dornish ladies had stayed too, Lady Blackmont, but she was of an age with the prince, and too dark-skinned to be truly beautiful.

Cersei glanced across the yard. Her escort was waiting with her palfrey; Ser Lyn Corbray of the Kingsguard, a dozen knights and three score mounted goldcloaks. Ser Addam Marbrand's white cloak fluttered in the wind as he helped Tommen mount up. With a sigh she made her way to join them, leaving the stink of sweat and horse behind. The things I must do to keep Tommen safe, she thought resentfully as the great gates opened and she forced herself to don a smile.

It had been Lady Margaery's suggestion that the little king ride through the streets every few days to win the love of the commons. Hoping the smallfolk will fawn on her, the silly chit. The queen remembered the howling of the mob, the ugly old women screaming brotherfucker; the stones and dung and rotten cabbages flying through the air. The love of the smallfolk was a fickle thing; Lord Tywin had never bothered to condescend to them. Lord Varys informed her that at present the smallfolk were still full of ardor for Sansa Stark and her baseborn suitor; the taverns and pot shops rang with songs full of romantic twaddle.

They'll forget the wolf-bitch soon enough, Cersei thought as Tommen tossed coppers to a beggar. Despite the sullen crowd her son's smile was almost as blinding as the sun on his golden crown. The queen was almost enjoying herself, until she noticed the raggedy sparrows at the edges of the street. She really should have the High Septon do something about them.

The lice-ridden creatures were a plague upon the city. Since their impudence on the last day of Lord Tywin's funeral they had grown more cautious; the taste of steel had served to remind them of their place. But even if they did not openly preach treason, they still encouraged disorder and defiance. The Red Wedding had particularly offended them, as had Lady Sansa's trial by combat. Some even dared murmur about the slaughter of Rhaegar's children before their mother's eyes.

Rhaegar was meant to wed me, not that flat-chested cripple, she thought as she nodded at a tradesman. My children were meant to be kings, not hers.

Dimly she recalled a tent that smelt of spices, and an old woman's sour breath. What a fool she had been to fear her. The valonqar was dead, burning in hell beside the witch. There was no younger queen; the Stark girl was wed to a bastard, and Lady Margaery would not supplant Cersei. Winter would handle Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark; if not, they would die upon Lannister swords in the spring.

Cersei smiled as she watched her little king. She would mold him into a proper lion, as fierce as his father and as clever as his mother. No one would shake her son's grip upon the Iron Throne.

And we're off! Can't wait to see what you guys think :D

1) Writing Cersei is so much fun. God, she's the worst. Her internal monologue is so bitchy and oblivious to her own hypocrisy. I couldn't bring myself to write any racist anti-Dorne jokes for Darlessa; Cersei thinking Lady Blackmont "too dark-skinned to be truly beautiful" was gross enough.

2) As best I can tell from the PrivateMajor timeline, the famine in King's Landing lasted for seven months before the Reach started sending food. Tyrion claims King's Landing has 500,000 people, which is WAY too big for a city in this time period with the available resources. So… I used the famine to trim things down. Medieval famines were devastating, especially on the poor, but we don't hear much about the death toll in King's Landing, which should have been massive.

Logistically it is impossible for the Reach to have regularly supplied the city with food by wayn; the crownlands and Riverlands are closer and can ship grain by boat on the rivers. So of COURSE Tywin decided to have his reavers run around burning the riverlands harvest; classic Tywin. Short term brutality over long term practicality and self interest.