Early to late March, 301 AC

"How fares the king in his lessons?"

"King Tommen progresses admirably, Your Grace." Pycelle's wrinkled chin and neck trembled as he spoke, the loose pink wattles unsightly beneath a thin patch of white hairs. "He reads very well for his age, and pays close attention."

Tommen smiled at the Grand Maester's praise, his plump cheeks dimpling. "We just started learning about Daeron the Young Dragon," Tommen said, almost bouncing in his seat. "He was a splendid warrior, and a scholar too!"

The Young Dragon was also crowned at fourteen, Cersei remembered, and ruled in his own right without a regent. She smiled, resisting the urge to narrow her eyes at Pycelle. Was he seeking to undermine her by putting ideas into Tommen's head? Tommen was only newly ten, nearly a babe in arms.

"Yesterday His Grace finished reading The Conquest of Dorne ," Pycelle continued, a vague air of paternal pride in his lined face, as though he had raised Tommen himself. "The entire account, cover to cover, and asked thoughtful questions as he read. Why, even at twelve, Joffrey would not—"

"King Joffrey," Cersei corrected tersely as Pycelle fell silent, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "His skills lay in the yard, with sword and spear and bow."

"Of-of course, Your Grace," Pycelle stammered while Tommen looked between them, eyes wide.

"I fear the Young Dragon is not the best exemplar for King Tommen," Cersei said lightly. "I hear the Dornish curse his name to this day; it would be a pity for the king to praise Daeron's exploits within Prince Oberyn's hearing. Offending our Dornish friends would be so unfortunate. Perhaps Baelor the Blessed and Daeron the Second would suit instead?"

Baelor the Blessed was already of age when he took the crown; so was Daeron, who had brought Dorne into the realm where his predecessor of the same name had failed. Daeron the First had tried swords, and could not hold the desert for more than a year or two. Daeron the Second was no warrior; he obtained Dorne's surrender by taking a Dornish princess to wife and giving the Martells a Targaryen princess in exchange. Perhaps that was where the old saying about battles won in bedchambers came from.

"I-I suppose, Your Grace," Pycelle answered.

"But I like learning about the Young Dragon!" Tommen objected, lower lip trembling. "I wouldn't say anything rude to the Dornish, I wouldn't —"

A stern look quelled Tommen, as it never would have quelled Joffrey.

"I'm sorry, mother," Tommen whispered, looking at his feet, and without further protest he departed for his lesson, Ser Balon Swann following after the little king.

Cersei was still fuming over her son's meekness when her ladies arrived to attend her. If only Jaime were here, she thought as Jocelyn Swyft made some banal comment about how well the queen looked today. Her twin had taken little interest in the children they made together, but with Robert dead he might have played the doting uncle, teaching Tommen the way of the lance and sword. The master-at-arms had not opposed Cersei when she forbade Tommen the risk of jousting, but Jaime, Jaime could be trusted to teach her son without putting him in danger. She would have to think on the matter, when she found the time.

Time was something Cersei rarely had. There was a kingdom to run, after all, and she was Queen Regent. She did not need to spend every minute of her day coddling her son; there were other ways to keep him away from Lady Margaery, his far too eager betrothed. Lessons with Pycelle served to fill several hours each day; Tommen enjoyed reading about dead kings and dusty old laws.

Meanwhile, Cersei rose early to fulfill her many duties. First she bathed and dressed; a queen must always look untouchable, a goddess in silks and jewels. At the Hour of the Father she attended prayers in the royal sept. She heard tedious petitions from her cushioned seat beneath the Iron Throne; she attended endless small council meetings; she indulged the commons with rides through the city. And, of course, she must give up her time to stroking the pride of her courtiers, the lords and knights who kept Tommen safe on his throne.

Hunting and hawking were well enough. Cersei had not enjoyed such sport when Robert was alive, much to his annoyance. Now that he was rotting in his grave, she went out at least once every sennight. The weather yesterday had been warm and clear, the sight of her falcon snatching a bird in midair thrilling enough to bring roses to her cheeks.

"Our queen's falcon is as beautiful and graceful as the queen herself," said the Bastard of Driftmark.

Aurane Waters was one of the few who could boast of surviving the inferno upon the Blackwater. His trueborn brother, Lord Monford Velaryon, had sworn House Velaryon to Stannis Baratheon's cause, and burned on his great ship, Pride of Driftmark. Now Monford's son, a boy of seven, held Driftmark in Stannis's name. Aurane showed more sense; after swimming to safety he had immediately pledged his sword to Tommen.

"Such flattery," Cersei protested, smiling. "Do you think your queen a loaf of bread, that you would seek to bathe me with honeyed words?"

"No mere loaf of bread was ever so fair," he answered, with a look of barely concealed hunger. Cersei tossed her golden curls and laughed. Waters was a handsome young man of two-and-twenty, with grey-green eyes and long silver-gold hair. From a distance he resembled nothing so much as Rhaegar Targaryen come again, and her bed was so cold and lonely...

No, the risk was not worth it. Jaime might return at any moment, he must have escaped his captors by now. Besides, bastards might be lusty, but they were not known for their discretion. She favored Waters with another smile, then spurred her horse onward.

The queen soon regretted riding ahead to the front of the hawking party. Aurane Waters might be charming, no doubt hoping for the grant of legitimacy which would enable him to take his nephew's seat, but there were other courtiers eager to waste her time.

"Randyll Tarly is a fine commander, but this siege on Storm's End really has gone too long," Lord Mace Tyrell complained. "A year and three months, I ask you!"

"Perhaps a stronger touch is needed," Cersei hinted.

"Stronger than Tarly? The man's made of pure iron," Lord Mace answered, absentmindedly petting his enormous goshawk on the head. The bird glared at Cersei, ruffling its barred blue-grey feathers.

"I thought Lord Renly jested when he claimed his castellan could hold the keep for years if need be," Lady Margaery said sweetly, bringing her horse over. Her peregrine falcon was smaller than Cersei's, yet it had already taken a duck and a heron, much to the queen's annoyance. "But Lady Chelsted tells me tis true enough; Ser Cortnay Penrose told her he kept the granaries full to bursting no matter the season."

"Chelsted?" Cersei vaguely recalled the name; some old Hand of Mad King Aerys.

"Aye, born Ellyn Penrose, Ser Cortnay's older sister," Mace said with excessive bombast. "Aerys burned Qarlton Chelsted before the city fell, but as he never bothered stripping the man's titles, Chestnut Grove passed to his widow. Fervently devoted to His Grace King Tommen; she tells all and sundry that Stannis murdered Ser Cortnay through foul sorcery."

"Perhaps." For a moment Cersei felt ill, remembering her father laying facedown upon his desk, the stink of nightsoil pungent in the air. "We were speaking of Storm's End, and its full larders. A wise precaution. No doubt inspired by your brave siege many years ago." She sighed. "Surely, if you yourself were to go—"

"And miss the honor of Your Grace's company? No, no, Tarly will wear them down."

Cersei smiled, though she wanted to scream. Tyrell did not give a fig for her company, he only cared about his damn small council seat. Thanks to her uncle Ser Kevan Lannister he was now master of laws, and his toady Paxter Redwyne the master of ships.

I should not have listened to uncle, she thought as the prattle of women disturbed her thoughts. Jocelyn Swyft was now regaling Cersei and her ladies rather loudly with some inane story about her aunt Dorna, Ser Kevan's lady wife, and her difficulty telling her twin sons apart.

"Willem wasn't growing his hair out then, you see," Jocelyn said. Only Cerissa Brax was truly listening; Jocelyn seemed not to notice Melesa Crakehall's look of apathy and Darlessa Marbrand's open disdain.

Marbrand. Of course! Ser Addam Marbrand was Jaime's closest friend, the Kingsguard she trusted most with her brother gone. Ser Addam would be the perfect choice to oversee Tommen's training. Pleased with herself, Cersei deigned to grant Jocelyn a smile.

"A most amusing story, my lady." She turned. "Lady Darlessa, what was that riddle you mentioned the other day? The one about the Dornishman, the Reacherman, and the fishwife?"

Darlessa recounted the clever jape at great length; by the end Cersei was nearly sore from laughing. To calm her nerves she drank deeply from a goblet of Arbor gold, the taste sweet upon her tongue. Her good humor dimmed when a knock rang at her solar.

"Enter!" Cersei called. Ser Lyn Corbray guarded the door; it was he who admitted a bashful squire of fifteen or so.

"Your Grace," the squire said, bowing deeply.

Ser Kevan Lannister's mousy little wife was nothing if not dutiful, and had presented him with three sons and a daughter in due course. His eldest, Lancel, had died during the Battle of the Blackwater after taking a wound beneath the arm. The squire who stood before her was Ser Kevan's next eldest, Willem. Lancel at least vaguely resembled Jaime, but the twins lacked the Lannister beauty. The youth before her had dark sandy hair, closer to brown than gold, hazel eyes with barely any green in them, and his mother's weak chin.

"Well met, coz. I take it the Lord Hand sent you?" Willem nodded.

It had been Cersei's idea to send for Ser Kevan's remaining sons, hoping their presence would shore up her Hand's despondency. Seven forbid Kevan should die; Mace Tyrell would be demanding the handship within the hour. Willem served as his father's squire; his twin Martyn served Ser Addam Marbrand. The boys were identical, but for the fact that Willem's hair brushed his shoulders and Martyn kept his close-cropped.

"The Lord Hand wished to inform you that Ser Daemon Sand has arrived from Dorne. Oh, and he brought a lady with him. Um. Lady Meria Sand, Prince Oberyn's daughter."

Darlessa Marbrand snorted; Cersei contented herself with raising an eyebrow. Lady Meria Sand was a lady by courtesy only, yet another one of the Red Viper's many whelps. Cersei idly wondered if she was Ser Daemon's paramour. It would not surprise her if the Dornishman was bold enough to bring a mistress with him to claim his white cloak. Perhaps they'd even fuck on it, as Jaime and Cersei had upon occasion.

"My thanks, Willem." The squire bobbed his head. Well, the twins might barely be Lannisters, but at least there was little danger of them walking all over Tommen. "Please inform Ser Addam Marbrand that I wish to speak with him after the midday meal."

Once the squire was gone the ladies resumed talking over their needlework. Autumn remained unpleasant, a dull chill and damp weather hanging over the city. Lady Tanda Stokeworth was still laying siege to the Ullers, hoping one of the childless old lords would take her lackwit daughter Lollys and the bastard she'd born after being raped during the bread riot.

"If Lady Tanda grows any more desperate she'll be going for landed knights next," Darlessa japed. "Or even sellswords—that dark fellow, the one with the sigil of the burning chain, he's been sniffing about Lollys like a cat after a mouse."

Cersei almost choked on her wine. "Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?" She'd thought him long gone, exiled from the city like the unwashed wildlings Tyrion had found in the mountains of the Vale.

"That's the one." Darlessa stabbed at her embroidery. "He swore himself to Lord Gyles; he has some ward back at Rosby who's been giving him trouble. A fine way to earn a few stags, keeping one lordling from escaping a keep."

The midday meal arrived shortly after. Yet again the cooks had failed to provide what she wanted; of late the queen had a craving for fried perch, a craving they refused to satisfy. Cersei had taken Lord Tywin's cook into her service after his death, but the woman provided naught but excuses for the lack of freshwater fish upon the royal table.

"Shall I have my cook whipped for a liar, or is there truly no fish to be found upon the Blackwater?"

To her annoyance, it seemed no one in the city was enjoying freshwater fish. Tyrion had burned Stannis's ships upon the Blackwater, but it seemed he had also burned the river itself. At least, that was the favored explanation for the dearth of fish. Only the fishing boats which braved the coast and the rough saltwaters were catching anything in their nets.

After the midday meal came a quick word with Ser Addam Marbrand, then the small council meeting. Prince Oberyn wore a conceited smirk, doubtless pleased by the arrival of his bastard daughter. Did the man not know she was likely bedding the newest member of the Kingsguard? Men could be so blind, refusing the see the obvious. The council quickly finished making arrangements for Ser Daemon Sand's induction into the white cloaks; there were more urgent matters at hand.

As usual, the ironborn refused to be of any use. At least Balon Greyjoy had the sense to offer an alliance with the Iron Throne after crowning himself. With Balon dead, his brother Victarion was now calling himself King of the Isles. Such absurd pretentions might have been amusing, except that rather than continue raiding the north, sapping Robb Stark's strength, Victarion Greyjoy had decided to send his reavers to richer shores. Scattered bands of reavers were descending upon the southern Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach.

"They strike quickly, attacking fishing villages and market towns," Varys informed the council. "Women and children are taken captive; those too old or ugly to serve as thralls are killed and left to rot upon the sands."

"Dreadful, dreadful," Lord Gyles coughed. She really did need to find a new master of coin, but Cersei suspected any attempt to replace the irritating invalid would result in another Reachermen to annoy her.

"What of Lannisport?" Cersei inquired. The Westerlands relied upon the harbor, as did the fortunes of House Lannister.

"The ironborn have not dared attack Lannisport or Oldtown." She misliked the weary tone of Ser Kevan's voice.

"Cowards," Mace Tyrell blustered, Paxter Redwyne nodding in agreement. "Just a few ships would be enough to send them running back to those little rocks they call islands."

"King Tommen requires all our ships to ensure the fall of Storm's End and Dragonstone." Cersei did not like the look in Mace Tyrell's eye.

"A few ships might be spared, surely, Your Grace," Ser Kevan said. "I am sure our beloved king would wish to ensure the safety of his mother's and his betrothed's people."

Why did the Red Viper still look so smug?

"Of course," Cersei said graciously, favoring Tyrell and Redwyne with a smile. The meeting could not end quickly enough, after that. No one else seemed to suspect anything amiss, but she was a lioness, and she could smell blood in the air.

"Prince Oberyn, a word?" She asked when the counselors began rising from their chairs. The Dornishman inclined his head, dark eyes glimmering. The prince did have a certain savage beauty, despite his olive skin, widow's peak, and large, sharp nose.

"How may I serve the queen regent?" Prince Oberyn said once all were gone. Cersei beckoned him closer; he sat near the foot of the table, and she at the head. There was no need to shout during a private conversation.

"I marked a certain good humor about you this afternoon. What news accounts for such happiness, I pray?"

"Is the pleasure of your sweet company not reason enough?" Cersei inclined her head, rather than roll her eyes, and the Dornishman smiled wickedly. "Very well, I suppose I must confess. I have received word from my scapegrace son."

Cersei resisted the urge to lean forward. Had the bastard already got Sansa Stark with child? Oh, if only she could see the look on Robb Stark's face when he heard such happy news.

"Ser Olyvar has departed for a tour of the Free Cities."

Well, that was not quite what the queen had hoped, but still promising. "Oh? I recall you mentioned such a tour in your youth."

Prince Oberyn gave her a wolfish grin. "Indeed. Prince Doran made such a tour, eager to see exotic lands and taste their fruits. My tour was... well, I was rather a monstrous fellow in my youth. The delights I tasted were just as sweet, but rather more... carnal in nature. Olyvar has yearned to taste those same delights for years, even before he reached manhood."

"Surely he has not left his new bride all alone amongst his kin." If he had, Cersei would need to think of some way to punish the Dornish. She meant for Sansa to have just as happy a marriage with Ser Olyvar as Cersei had shared with Robert.

"No, no," the Red Viper reassured her. "What sort of fool leaves such a luscious dish behind when he might taste it every day?"

"With such devotion to his duties I hope we shall soon receive joyous news." She hoped childbirth was as painful as possible for Sansa, though it would be exceptionally cruel of the gods to let the girl die. She intended for the girl to sup on misery for many long years to come.

"I doubt it, Your Grace." Prince Oberyn covered a yawn. "My tour lasted, oh, several years, and I do not think I wrote my mother a single letter, though I did return for Princess Elia's wedding, by her command. I might have remained there longer, had I not lacked the funds. Prince Doran was much less generous than my mother."

Cersei could not even imagine the debauchery of the Free Cities; there were brothels everywhere, and bedslaves trained in pleasures so obscene maesters would not write of them.

"I do hope there will be coin for Ser Olyvar and his bride to remain as long as they like," she purred. "As you said, we could not keep the girl further from her brother unless we sent her to Yi Ti."

"I shall write to my brother to ensure that it is so," Prince Oberyn promised gallantly.

Cersei could have laughed with triumph as she left the council room, but for the fact that Ser Kevan awaited her in the hall. His massive jaw was thinner than she remembered, his yellow beard flecked with silver.

"Nuncle, I hope you have not waited long." She refused to show her irritation; Ser Kevan must be handled delicately if he was to remain as her Hand until Tommen came of age.

"Pycelle brought me two ravens this morning, Your Grace. I thought it best that we discuss them privily."

"My solar, then." Cersei eyed Willem, who stood behind his father, ready to serve. "Willem, tell my cook to prepare a tray. Your lord father must not grow lean from his labors."

The boy darted off, and Cersei accepted her uncle's arm. "A devoted son is a blessing from the Seven."

"Willem is a good boy. He takes after my Dorna; he prays seven times a day, and never slacks in his duties."

Cersei smiled and nodded as Kevan talked at length about his sons, and his daughter Janei back in Lannisport with her mother. It seemed Dorna wrote him regularly to inform him of the girl's progress, just as he wrote Dorna to inform her of the boys. Dull conversation, but it took them to her solar.

"Now, what are these ravens?" The queen asked, once Willem had come and gone, leaving behind a tray of chicken poached in rice flavored with saffron and garnished with toasted almonds. The queen ignored the food, instead sipping a cup of fine lemon wine gifted to her by one of the Dornishmen.

"The first arrived from Castle Black late last night," Ser Kevan said, handing her the rolled parchments. One was sealed with pure black wax, the other with crimson edged in gold. "The second arrived from Casterly Rock around mid morning."

While Kevan speared a chunk of chicken with his knife, Cersei opened the letter from Casterly Rock. When she appointed her cousin Damion Lannister as castellan, she had not expected him to trouble her so often. The letter was a stale list of complaints regarding everything from preparations for winter to some difficulty with the drains and cisterns.

Cersei frowned. Such matters were beneath her notice. Lord Tywin had given Tyrion charge of the drains and cisterns when he came to manhood, a slight quickly noticed by all and sundry. The bowels of Casterly Rock were filled with deep pits and tight passageways, wet caverns carved by the sea and dry cells for the vilest of criminals. Now, thanks to Tyrion's incompetence, it seemed some of the cells closest to the sea were somehow beginning to slowly fill with sewage.

"I will attend to this later, nuncle, it seems our Damion requires more guidance than I thought," Cersei informed Ser Kevan as he chewed. She did not like his pallor; she would have to ask Pycelle about potions to restore vigor.

Her knife made quick work of the black seal on the second parchment. Lord Commander Jon Snow— now there was a jape of the gods, the fools of the Night's Watch choosing Ned Stark's bastard to take command— wished to inquire as to whether Ser Alliser Thorne had reached King's Landing.

"Have I gone mad, nuncle?" Cersei inquired, waiting until he finished his current mouthful of rice. "I seem to recall Ser Alliser Thorne graced us with his presence while Tyrion was Hand; he sent the man back north with a few dozen scum off the streets of Flea Bottom."

"I believe so," Ser Kevan replied.

"Hmm. Perhaps he heard of Lord Snow's election and chose to desert. The Free Cities provide ample opportunities for knights, so long as they prove willing to sell their swords."

Ser Kevan frowned. "Thorne served under Aerys, I recall. A man of stiff ill humor and excessive pride, but no craven to abandon his post."

Cersei turned back to the letter. "Stark's bastard is as bold as his father. He has the sheer gall to ask for men and food. This, while he shelters Stannis! I should have forbidden the Martells to send him more men; what if Stannis seeks to use the Night's Watch against us?"

"With all the autumn storms of late, Stannis would be more likely to spend his strength against Robb Stark." Ser Kevan sipped at his hippocras. "I doubt the Watch will be able to feed even half the new men from Dorne. Lord Mace had a letter from Willas; the Tyrells seek permission to send some of their unwanted mouths to the Wall as well."

"Robb Stark would not let his brother starve," Cersei mused. "Every bushel of grain he sends to the Wall is a bushel he cannot feed his own men, let alone those of the Riverlands or Vale. Yes, well reasoned uncle. Let the Dornish and Reachermen send all the men they like to the Wall."

"Speaking of Lord Mace..."

Cersei bit back a groan of dismay.

"A few ships to protect the western coast will go far in keeping the Tyrells loyal. We still have few ships of our own, since the storm that smashed half the Lannisport fleet at anchor two years past. Refusing Redwyne permission to defend his own waters would be most unwise."

"Every ship that leaves Dragonstone or Storm's End only lessens our chokehold on Stannis," the queen reminded him. "The knight of onions required only one ship to keep Stannis from surrendering to Lord Mace during the rebellion; how many ships will slip past our nets if Redwyne brings them west?"

"A few," Kevan admitted. "But not enough to matter. Storm's End remains cut off by land, and Stannis shows no sign of returning to lift the siege. Dragonstone matters even less, with the power of the Reach and Dorne behind us. We must keep our allies happy, Cersei, and that means embracing them, not shoving them away."

"Embracing them, of course, uncle." A delightful thought had occurred to Cersei. "I have erred, avoiding Lady Margaery's company as I have. I should take my future gooddaughter under my wing. Margaery would be a most charming lady-in-waiting."

Kevan leaned back in his chair, pressing a hand to his face. "You cannot treat her as you did the Stark girl. Lord Mace is quick to take offense at any slight to his pride."

"Would I do such a thing? I am not as reckless as Jaime."

Granted, it would be most amusing to collar Margaery as she had Sansa, but the queen was not a lackwit. Drawing Margaery into her circle would prevent the girl from forming her own, though she would likely have to put up with a few ladies from the Reach also joining her ladies-in-waiting.

"Very well," Kevan granted. "One last matter which requires attention. Ser Jacelyn Bywater has at last managed to bring the gold cloaks into good order, but the city still churns with disorder. The shipments of grain are barely enough to feed the city; the corpses in Flea Bottom lay so thick upon the ground that the sparrows have begun carrying them to the Dragonpit so that they may be burned."

Cersei balked. "Surely that is a matter for the patricians."

Lowborn curs, all of them, landowners, merchants and guild masters who had acquired enough wealth to consider themselves important. When she was a little girl there was a lord mayor, but Aerys had done away with the office after burning the last lord mayor alive for some offense. An understandable impulse, given that the lord mayors were nothing but upjumped smallfolk chosen from among the patricians. Without a lord mayor, the drudgery of running the city fell to the patricians, though the king himself had the final say on all major decisions.

"Jon Arryn kept them well in hand, but Tyrion ignored them utterly." Ser Kevan sighed. "Tywin reminded them of their place, but since his death they grow troublesome. The baker's guild and the merchants' guilds have come to blows more than once over the price of flour."

Cersei thought for a moment. Clearly the patricians required a firm hand, but she misliked the thought of more time listening to men squabble while trying not to gawp at her teats. "Perhaps it is time to remedy Aerys' folly. A new lord mayor might force these bickering children to remember their duties."

Kevan sighed heavily. "Perhaps. There is a danger that the patricians may elect a fool from among their number."

"A danger easily remedied. Surely our master of laws might devise some sort of leash to ensure the lord mayor serves the king and not himself." She would have no Jon Snows in her city.

"I shall ask Maester Ballabar and Septon Raynard to investigate the precedent for such a law."

"My thanks, Lord Hand." Rising to her feet, Cersei pressed a kiss to the top of her uncle's balding head, pressing a hand to his shoulder when he began rising to his feet. "Please, finish your meal. It does my heart good to see you regain your former strength. Our realm depends upon you."

The next afternoon found Cersei in the yard, watching Tommen ride at quintain under Ser Addam Marbrand's vigilant eye. On the other side of the yard Prince Oberyn was beating his own squire most unmercifully. To Cersei's surprise she noted the boy's shield bore the purple and white chequy of House Payne, the gold coins in the checks dim and dented. How had the Red Viper come by a squire from the Westerlands, let alone that one?

Ser Aron Santagar stood close by, but she discounted him immediately; the master-of-arms was unlikely to answer her curiosity. The man barely spoke, even before rumors began circulating of the Red Viper taking Ser Aron's wife into his bed. Casting her eyes about, she landed on a Dornishman whose surcoat boasted three black scorpions on red, the sigil of House Qorgyle. Prince Oberyn had fostered at Sandstone; Ser Arron was on of his most constant companions. Perfect.

"Well met, Ser Arron," she said, donning a merry smile as she drew near. The knight bowed, his sunstreaked brown hair tumbling about his face.

"Your Grace."

"A fine day for a spar, is it not?" She asked. After a few minutes pointless chatter, she glanced at the Red Viper, now lecturing his skinny squire on the best way to hold his sword.

"Odd, to see a prince of such high birth take a squire born so low. Podrick Payne comes from a cadet branch; the boy was penniless before my brother Tyrion saw fit to take him into his service."

"A gesture of affection to his son," Ser Arron said idly. "Ser Olyvar enjoyed beating the stuffing out of the boy; when he departed, he asked that his father continue his good work."

Cersei narrowed her eyes. The Red Viper's previous squire was Ser Daemon Sand, one of the finest knights in all of Dorne. Why tolerate a timid boy from the Westerlands? Unless... her blood ran cold. No, the boy would not have breathed a word, she had frightened him into silence, she was sure of it.

"He is hadworking and biddable, for all that he is unable to speak without staring at his feet," Ser Arron casually remarked. A new thought occurred to Cersei. There were rumors about the Red Viper's proclivities, just as there were rumors about Ser Lyn Corbray's. Was Prince Oberyn not content with cuckolding Ser Aron Santagar?

The pealing of bells interrupted her thoughts, a mournful ringing coming from the Great Sept of Baelor. Almost as one every head in the yard turned toward the sound; a few of the more devout drew the sign of the Seven over their hearts. When the knight came barreling through the gates calling for the Queen Regent, Cersei already knew what news he brought.

The next seven days passed in a whirl of clanging bells and long hours of droning prayer. The High Septon was the voice of the Seven upon earth, the gods' own chosen. Only after his body was laid to rest could the Most Devout begin the process of choosing his successor.

There were three hundred and forty three septons and septas among the Most Devout, seven men and seven women for each of the seven gods. Among those sworn to the Father, Warrior, and Smith, only the septons might cast their votes. Among those sworn to Mother, Maiden, and Crone only septas might cast their votes, although they were guided by the wisdom of their septons. All of the fourteen septons and septas sworn to the Stranger cast votes, for men and women were equal before the god of death.

Out of those fixty-six who might cast votes, a High Septon required forty-nine, seven for each face of god. Each of the many rounds of voting eliminated candidates with little support, but there were few to begin with, as it was the rare man brave enough to put himself forward without approval from the crown.

"It will be Torbert or Raynard," Cersei informed her ladies three days after the septons began their deliberations.

"What of Ollidor?" Lady Margaery asked sweetly, her head bent over her copy of The Seven-Pointed Star.

Cersei made a moue of distaste. "He nearly had the votes, but the sparrows grow ever bolder. They stalked Septon Ollidor to a brothel and dragged him out naked into the street."

"Disgraceful," muttered Willem, who had just brought a message from the lord hand and had decided to play with a cat whilst awaiting the queen's answer.

Lady Margaery, lacking any other way to ingratiate herself with her betrothed, had taken to doting on the little beasts, and always had at least one trailing after her. Ser Pounce, the ginger and white cat who was Tommen's especial favorite, loved burrowing beneath the lap blanket Margaery wore to keep off the chill. Willem had gotten the idea of dangling a feather in front of the cat, who emerged from the blanket to bat at it.

"Indeed." Cersei shook her head solemnly. "These sparrows grow far too bold. For smallfolk to assault a member of the Most Devout—"

"He should lose his office," Willem said with a steadfastness she'd never heard from him before. "A septon swears a life celibacy; to break his vows is to spit upon the Seven."

Her ladies were looking at her; Cerissa Brax looked particularly distraught at the very idea of a septon patronizing whores. "He should," Cersei allowed, "but it is for the Most Devout to discipline their own, not a mob of filthy rabble."

"They forget their place," Melesa Crakehall agreed. Lady Margaery said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. Insolent wench.

In the end it took three more days before the Most Devout chose to elevate Septon Raynard. Cersei wore a cloth-of-gold gown to honor his election, trimmed with seven-colored silks. The ceremony should have packed the Great Sept of Baelor to overflowing, but to her surprise, there were great gaps in the aisles set aside for the Most Devout.

"What is the meaning of this?" She asked Ser Kevan as he escorted her from the sept. Tommen was twenty feet ahead of them, babbling happily with the new High Septon.

"Seventy of the Most Devout protested Raynard's election," Ser Kevan whispered, mindful of the crowd.

Cersei frowned. "Was there some objection from those sworn to the Warrior?" Most of the most recent High Septons had been sworn to the Warrior; Raynard was sworn to the Smith.

"The objectors came from all of the Seven, though most were sworn to Smith or Crone."

Cersei blinked, astonished. "Raynard's own fellows?"

"The very same. Some sought to put forward a candidate from outside the Most Devout."

The queen hissed like an angry cat. "Are they mad? They have not chosen from outside their own since Baelor forced that lackwit child upon them. Who did they favor, pray?"

"A pious dwarf, the one that the guards set loose."

They emerged into the sunlight on the steps of Baelor; Cersei smiled and waved at the crowd to hide her fury. There were over two thousand sparrows in the city, and the dwarf was the worst of them. Was she cursed, that all dwarfs must plague her so?

First the damned imp had led a band of sparrows away from Ser Lyn Corbray during the riot on the last day of Lord Tywin's funeral. Then the sparrows began claiming the dwarf was blessed after he supposedly healed some scrofulous vagabonds by laying hands upon them. Tired of his rabblerousing, Ser Kevan had directed Ser Jacelyn Bywater to arrest the treasonous beggar. Within days he somehow freed himself from his shackles, and rather than chain him properly, the simpletons had set him free.

"They dare," Cersei murmured under her breath. "The insolent fools."

"His High Holiness is inclined to expel them from the Most Devout, so long as such action does not displease King Tommen."

"Yes," Cersei breathed. "Better let, His High Holiness should expel them from the city. I want them gone, traitors and sparrows both. Ser Jacelyn will doubtless relish the chance to show how disciplined the City Watch has become under his leadership."

A troop of mummers were on the plaza below, performing Baelor the Most Blessed of Kings. No sooner had Ser Kevan left her to speak with the new High Septon than the sweet stench of lavender assailed her nose.

"A lovely day," Varys said amiably. "Almost as lovely as Your Grace."

"How does a eunuch become so practiced at flattery?"

Varys tsked, putting a hand to his powdered cheek. It was hard, sometimes, remembering how closely she had relied on him when she first came to King's Landing as queen. The eunuch had often given her useful bits of information, such as which of her ladies were enamored of the king, which of her maids were paid to inform on her to Lord Tywin.

"I was once a mummer, as you know full well," he said, casting a judgmental glance at the chubby man playing the role of Baelor in the last weeks of his final fast.

"Your grandmother was a mummer, too," she vaguely recalled. He shook his head, feigning dismay.

"She never walked the stage; my grandmother patronized mummers, until her fortune ran dry. Her favorite troop took me in after her untimely death, and taught me all their tricks."

"Fascinating," the queen lied. "I should love to see you play Florian, or the Dragonknight." Varys giggled.

"Alas, those are roles for whole men, Your Grace. I might juggle for you, or entertain you with a riddle."

"A riddle?"

Varys smiled, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight. "I will share my favorite, if I may. Lord Tyrion found it diverting, though he never troubled to give me an answer." At her nod he continued.

"Three great worthies sit in a room, a queen, a septon, and a rich man with his gold. Betwixt them stands a sellword. The queen mistrusts the septon and the rich man, and they distrust her and each other in turn. 'Slay them,' commands the queen, 'and I shall give you land and titles.' 'No, slay the others, for they have blasphemed against the gods,' says the septon. 'Nay, slay the others,' says the rich man, 'and all this gold shall be yours.' So tell me—who lives and who dies?"

The answer was so obvious as to be insulting. "It depends upon the sellsword," the queen replied. "What does he fear to lose? Is he a bastard who fears dying without leaving his son a noble name? Is he a godly man, who fears for his soul should he offend the gods? Or is he a penniless wastrel, who fears for his empty purse?"

"Well reasoned, Your Grace." The eunuch stroked his cheek. "Yet... what if the sellsword has no fear? What if he has nothing left to lose?"

Upon the stage the mummer playing Baelor collapsed, his tin crown falling to the ground below. "Lord Varys, you surprise me," the queen murmured. "Those are the most dangerous men of all."


Can't wait to hear what you guys think!!! So many details hidden here and seeds of future plots…

Next update is Dany III, aka The Clusterfuck to End All Clusterfucks. The chapter is heavily outlined but it may take a while to write, as I'm on vacation next week which means my energy and cell phone reception are uncertain.

Notes

1) Tyrion's wildfire completely fucked the ecology of the mouth of the Blackwater river. Whoops! Look at that, short term gain, long term loss...

2) In canon Ser Kevan's second son, Willem, was taken captive in the Whispering Wood, and later slain by Rickard Karstark. Here he was part of a hostage exchange back in Chapter 39.

3) Blink and you'll miss a reference to our erstwhile Olyvar Frey…

4) A dear friend, aware of how this fic has devoured my life, gifted me The Medieval Cookbook by Maggie Black. GRRM mentions rice only once, in a Dany chapter, but medieval Europe did in fact have rice! It was grown in Spain, Italy, and in Arab lands around the Mediterranean.

5) King's Landing has no actual city government referenced in the books. The fuck. My introduction of a city government was based in large part off the analysis from A Collection of Unmitigated Pedantry, specifically his article on Game of Thrones and the Middle Ages.

6) Ser Lyn Corbray being a pedophile who rapes boys is canon. Cersei, being terrible, wrongly believes the same is true of Oberyn.

7) Varys' riddle is the one he told Tyrion in ACOK in canon, tweaked slightly. Tyrion also thought who lived or died would depend on the sellsword.