November 302


"All Lord Farman's ships?" The queen regent stared at Pycelle, hoping she had misheard the old man's stammering. She glanced at her uncle, and that hope died. Ser Kevan Lannister looked even more tired than usual. There were dark shadows under his eyes, his face pale and puffy, his once golden beard now faded and speckled with white.

"A third of his fleet, in truth," the maester answered, handing her the letter. "The rest guard Lannisport, as the King's Hand ordained."

Cersei scanned the letter with growing displeasure as her councillors shifted uneasily in their seats. Lord Gyles Rosby was coughing again, no thanks to that wretch Qyburn. When Grand Maester Pycelle querulously informed her that her lord treasurer's death was nigh, that his illness was beyond healing, she'd turned to the chainless maester. The Lord Confessor claimed he could do what Pycelle could not, thanks to his knowledge of how to prolong the suffering of the wrongdoers consigned to the black cells.

As Lord Gyles yet lived, she could not be entirely wroth. Lord Mace Tyrell was desperate to snatch every council seat for himself; in his breathtaking arrogance he had suggested that his uncle Garth the Gross would be happy to lift the burden from a dying man's shoulders. Thank the Seven that when Lord Gyles tried to resign not two days later, he did so in private. It took most of Cersei's charm and all of her patience to convince him to remain in King's Landing and accept Qyburn's treatments.

"Where was Lord Redwyne's fleet when this happened?" drawled Prince Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper lounged in his chair with a cat's easy grace, garbed in flowing robes of scarlet and orange silk.

"My goodbrother and his main strength protect the Arbor and Oldtown. Those sailing up the coast for the Westerlands are slowed by foul winds, trapped near the Shield Islands." Lord Mace's tone was jolly, but she sensed anger beneath the smile. Autumn storms were common, to be sure; even now black sheets of rain poured down outside. Stilll... were she to ask that Tommen and Margaery wed on the morrow, would those foul winds miraculously cease? She wondered.

"This Victarion Greyjoy grows far too bold," Aurane Waters observed. Torchlight glimmered on his silver-gold hair; in the shadows of the council chamber his grey-green eyes looked almost purple. "All the more reason to proceed with building new dromonds, so King Tommen may protect his people."

Ser Kevan frowned, Lord Gyles coughed, and Pycelle protested feebly, but the Bastard of Driftmark soothed their concerns one by one. Cersei listened, feigning skepticism at first, adding her own questions now and then as to the prudence of expanding the royal fleet. Was it not better that they entrust such matters to their faithful lords Tyrell and Redwyne? Surely they were best prepared to brave the dangers of autumn tempests, ironborn reavers, and the plague of pirates of the Stepstones.

"Lord Paxter cannot be everywhere at once, Your Grace," Lord Mace said gruffly. "Already his fleet is stretched thin, and only the Seven know how many ships and men shall be lost to storms or battle. I see no reason why King Tommen should not have a navy of his own."

Victory assured, the queen yielded to Lord Mace's wise counsel. A few words of flattery and he agreed to pay for the first five dromonds himself, though to her annoyance he wished to name them, an indignity which she must perforce allow. After much maneuvering and a hint of blackmail the new High Septon finally agreed to forgive the sum of almost a million dragons owed to the Faith, but the crown remained deeply in debt. Cersei would have ceased their payments to the Iron Bank of Braavos, but Ser Kevan grew so distressed at the idea that she yielded for the time being.

With so little coin available, she was not surprised when Lord Gyles began coughing through his dismay about paying for the rest of the dromonds. The queen was surprised when Prince Oberyn came to her aid, unasked and unexpected.

While Prince Oberyn spoke of taxes upon the poor and loans from the rich, the queen watched Aurane Waters from the corner of her eye. A handsome man, and blessed with a good memory. He had repeated his lines almost word for word, precisely as she told him after morning prayers in the royal sept. Cersei had done well to appoint him master of ships until Lord Paxter Redwyne returned.

Much as Mace Tyrell's preening and blustering annoyed her, at least she was not forced to suffer Paxter Redwyne's presence. Over a year and a half since the fall of Dragonstone, and still he sulked, observing his courtesies with as little deference as possible and only speaking to the queen regent or lord hand if he could not avoid it. Was it her fault that his witless twins chose to storm the walls?

Lord Paxter's truculence might be more understandable if one or both had died, but they hadn't. Horror survived a blow to the head with no lasting harm but a tendency to drool, and Slobber survived an axe slash that should have split his skull in two, had it not missed and taken a chunk of his cheek instead. No one was like to forget which twin was which after that, though Cersei found a certain irony in the fact that their injuries did not match their names. Perhaps the gods could not tell the twins apart either.

Varys was the last of her councillors to speak, reading aloud a report full of fanciful nonsense. The Others were stirring beyond the Wall, no doubt accompanied by snarks, grumkins, and winged pigs. What was this Jon Snow playing at? Did the bastard hope to amass his own army and march on Winterfell to claim his brother's crown? The thought of the northmen turning on each other was so sweet she almost missed the next report, one from White Harbor

To her disappointment, several different merchants, two sailors, and a whore all agreed that the Dreadfort had fallen in the middle of sixth moon. "Although," Varys tittered. "I cannot confirm whether 'twas Arya Stark herself who did the deed."

A round of chuckles echoed through the council chambers. "That tiny brat?" The queen could not help but laugh. "Slay Roose Bolton and behead his bastard boy?"

"Would that be the same brat who savaged His Grace, King Joffrey, on the road south from Winterfell?" Prince Oberyn quirked a thin eyebrow, his dark eyes unreadable.

"The little bitch set her direwolf on him," the queen bristled. The loss of the beast's pelt still rankled; at least she had the satisfaction of a dead direwolf, albeit the wrong one.

"Ah. I thought her name was Anya; my mistake, Your Grace." The Red Viper covered a yawn. "Are there any more whispers, perchance of more important matters?"

"A few matters from the Vale and from across the Narrow Sea," the eunuch said with an unctuous smile. "Lord Yohn Royce is gathering men with the intent of sailing for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, but my whisperers say he still chafes at the boy king's rule, which favors his own people and those of his mother Lady Catelyn over those of his aunt in the Vale. Lord Horton Redfort refused a seat on the boy king's council after Stark accepted his son Ser Mychel into his household guard, and Lord Horton's septon preaches against this High Dwarf."

"Is there word of Ser Bonifer Hasty?" The pious knight was most distressed by the schism amongst the Faithful. When Ser Bonifer the Good begged the honor of treating with the heretics of Harrenhal, she saw little reason to deny him. The old stork insisted on swearing a holy vow in the royal sept, pledging to do his utmost to bring the High Dwarf and the renegade Most Devout back to King's Landing, where they might confer with the true High Septon and mend their differences.

Perhaps the High Dwarf would be foolish enough to accept Ser Bonifer's offer, though she doubted it. The wretched sparrows had fled only hours before Ser Jacelyn Bywater and his goldcloaks were to scourge them from the city on the pretext that they plotted to slay the new High Septon, Raynard. Even Varys could not figure out how they knew. Ser Jacelyn had hesitated at her command, until she informed him of the threat to the High Septon's life, but then he'd briskly returned to his post to muster the goldcloaks.

"Alas, my informers at Harrenhal say our brave Ser Bonifer and his Holy Hundred have yet to arrive." Varys shuffled through his papers, plucking one out from the pile. "Doubtless these frightful storms have slowed their pace; the roads are all mud, and the fields are even worse."

If Ser Bonifer and his Holy Hundred of devout knights could not manage the High Dwarf, the changing of seasons would likely finish them off. Already the autumn winds blew colder than those she recalled from her girlhood, and the Citadel predicted a bitter winter lay ahead.

Prince Oberyn yawned again. "Were the riverlords able to get the harvest in, or have they lost all?"

"Most of the wheat, oats, rye, and barley were gotten in," the eunuch answered. "But they cannot plant anew until the ground dries. With winter so close they shall doubtless try to fill their root cellars; they need only two or three moons of mild weather to sow and reap carrots, parsnips, radishes, kale, spinach..."

"Never mind that. What news from across the Narrow Sea?" Thank the Seven that Ser Kevan shared her impatience with tedious details.

"The cost of dye is like to become more dear; the Archon of Tyrosh was found murdered in his bed, or rather," the eunuch giggled. "Most of him was. Someone cut off his head and stuck it atop the Fountain of Colors in the center of the city. The magisters of Lys are fighting amongst themselves, a war of words and poisons. Myr is hiring sellswords by the thousands, though my informers are not sure whom they intend to attack."

The endless betrayals and intrigues of the Free Cities meant little and less to Westeros, save for the strange news of Slaver's Bay. Queen you shall be… until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear. The valonqar was dead, but she must be sure.

"What of Daenerys Stormborn?"

The eunuch's report eased her concerns. Although Daenerys Targaryen still ruled Meereen, her reign would soon be at an end. The triarchs of Volantis were gathering the greatest host seen in decades to descend upon Slaver's Bay, cast down the child queen, and bind her in chains. No doubt the bidding to purchase the last Targaryen would be fearsome indeed. She would not be the first Targaryen to become a whore; Cersei vaguely recalled some daughter of Jaehaerys the Conciliator had fled the Faith to take up service in a pleasure garden in Lys.

If, Seven forbid, the girl did come west… well, there was always the Alchemists' Guild. Flinging wildfire at a Targaryen would be the height of farce; she should really speak to the pyromancers about preparing more of their substance just in case.

When the meeting was done, her councillors filed out, all save Ser Kevan, who often remained so they might discuss matters privily. Willem, his eldest living son and squire, filled their cups with Dornish red, forgetting yet again that while his father favored sour wine, the queen utterly despised it.

"There is more news from the Westerlands," her uncle said, gesturing to a sheaf of parchments that lay before him. "A raven from Deep Den arrived this morning. They've been plagued by bandits of late, broken men returned from the Riverlands and heretics who follow this absurd High Dwarf. When Lord Joffrey Lydden rode out to meet them, half his men-at-arms joined the outlaws, the rest were slain, and Lydden himself was flung at the gates of Deep Den, his skull caved in and a seven-pointed star carved on his brow. The maester could do nothing; he passed the next day."

Cersei frowned as she tried to remember the lineage of House Lydden. Old Lord Cadwyn Lydden passed some five years ago, taken by an ague. The eldest of his three sons, Lewys Lydden, had died at Sweetroot, childless despite decades of marriage to a Crakehall with hips and teats that would make a whore jealous. The second son, Ser Joffrey Lydden, had never married, which left the third.

"Please tell me that Ser Mordryd Lydden is wed with children." The queen did not need a succession crisis on her hands. The clamor of rival claimants were bloody affairs, even when the only prize was the paltry holdings of a landed knight. Deep Den was one of the greatest strongholds in the west, with lands and incomes beyond any save those of Casterly Rock, Brax, and Crakehall.

"Lord Mordryd is wed," Ser Kevan assured her. "Though a widower. He has two sons and three daughters. The eldest girl might be a decent match for Willem; we must keep the Lyddens close. I know little of Ser Mordryd; he did not foster at Casterly Rock like Lewys, nor attend tourneys and feasts like Joffrey."

Cersei glanced at Willem. The boy was sixteen now, the same age his brother Lancel had been when she took him as a lover. Willem resembled Jaime even less than Lancel did, with his plain face and dark sandy hair. If only his spine was as weak as his chin; the boy was far too opinionated.

"Is that all?" Really, such trifling matters were best left to her castellan of Casterly Rock, Damion Lannister.

"I fear not. The ironborn will not stop at sinking Lord Farman's ships; Fair Isle lies in dire peril. They have already sacked every village and holdfast along the coast near the Banefort, and overwhelmed the Crag."

"No more than the Westerlings deserve, after their treachery."

Bad enough that an upjumped merchant had snared a man of Gawen Westerling's ancient lineage, but Sybell Spicer was a granddaughter of Maggy the Frog. When her daughter Jeyne caught the Young Wolf, shattering his alliance with the Freys, Cersei had laughed and laughed. She was less amused when Varys reported whispers that it was Jeyne Westerling who saved Robb Stark from the wounds he taken at the Red Wedding. Worse, the girl had the gall to die before Cersei could send a man to take care of her. The rest of the Westerlings remained at Riverrun, rightly terrified of returning to the Westerlands despite the peace treaty betwixt Lannister and Stark.

Ser Kevan pinched the top of his nose. "I forgot that you did not know. Lady Sybell wrote to Lord Tywin from the Crag; Stark's loss of the Freys was no mere accident, nor was the girl's failure to conceive an heir."

A delightful notion occurred to her. "Do we still have those letters?" If they could be sent to Riverrun, it would prove difficult for Lady Sybell to deny words written in her own hand. The Young Wolf deserved to know what sort of goodmother he had; if the gods were good, the revelation would utterly crush him.

Her uncle frowned. "I doubt it. They would have been amongst your father's papers, but he likely burned them."

The taste of disappointment still galled the queen as her ladies prepared her for dinner. Usually she dined with Tommen, asking after his lessons with the maesters and his training with Ser Addam Marbrand, and listening carefully lest he speak of Lady Margaery too often. Boys of eleven were apt to begin blushing over pretty girls; she would not let her son be so easily ensnared. Unfortunately, keeping the girl away from Tommen was more difficult whilst Cersei met with the small council, as it left her ladies-in-waiting free to do as they wished.

Today she'd kept Tommen out of Margaery's clutches with the help of Ser Addam and Lady Taena Merryweather. Shut up in the White Sword Tower, Ser Addam spent the afternoon showing Tommen the White Book of the Kingsguard. Cersei tried not to think about the half-filled page dedicated to Jaime, nor her uncle's insistence that they give him up for dead. Had not a Targaryen prince vanished to Lys for five years before returning? Her twin was alive, she knew it, he would come back to her.

As for the ladies, Lady Taena had proposed that the ladies-in-waiting spend the rainy day praying at the Great Sept of Baelor. Taena was a useful catspaw, desperate to win favor for her impoverished lord husband, and wise enough to realize only the queen regent could help her achieve those ambitions.

The exotic music of a qithara filled the air as the Queen Regent sat down to supper with Prince Oberyn Martell, his bastard daughter Meria Sand, Ser Daemon Sand of the Kingsguard, and Lady Larra Blackmont. Tolerating Lord Mace Tyrell grated upon her, and if she could vex him with her choice of dinner companions, well, the company of the Dornish was a small price to pay.

Conversation flowed as easily as the wine, a sweet orange from Lemonwood. Only Meria abstained; she preferred lemonwater. A mere two glasses of strongwine were enough to get her drunk and loosen her tongue, as the queen discovered one evening. The normally calm, humble girl turned practically giddy, gesturing wildly as she lamented her flat chest and abundant hips. Poor thing, she resembled plain Elia of Dorne more than the handsome, wicked Red Viper who sired her.

"Ser Daemon never even noticed me, Your Grace," she hiccuped to the amused queen. "When Princess Arianne rejected his suit, I thought to offer him comfort in my arms, but…"

"His eye fell upon another? A prior lover, perhaps?" Cersei prodded. Already she'd extracted a wealth of information about the Dornish from the drunken girl, but confirming the rumors would be the honey atop the cake.

"No," Meria slurred, looking up with reddened eyes. "A new lover. He- Daemon was looking for Ellaria, to talk to her, but instead he found my father, and in the morning they were still abed!"

"My poor sweetling," Cersei cooed, stroking the girl's dark hair. Really, how often were the gods so generous? Even better, Meria remembered nothing upon the morrow, a condition which made the girl a perfect, if unwitting, spy.

Cersei smiled. She did not need to rely on Varys so much as he thought she did. The second of her spies stood unnoticed in the corner, playing Dornish music for her Dornish guests. Once she had wondered how Littlefinger seemed to discover secrets which eluded the master of whisperers; now she knew.

Men were never so talkative as they were after bedding a whore, and when the brothel madam Bel offered to gather whispers for the queen, she seized the offer with both hands. The queen regent knew which lords and knights frequented the Street of Silk, whether they did so brazenly or in secret, whether their proclivities were common or shameful.

Once or twice Bel had even brought her word of treason among the patricians, her whores luring them into talking of the city and how it fared under the Queen Regent. It turned out that one of the candidates for Lord Mayor had been an ardent supporter of Stannis; the goldcloaks had found a hidden shrine to the red god in his manse, along with records of money and supplies sent to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The man's head now adorned traitor's walk, and the lord mayor's chain adorned the neck of a man whose devotion to House Lannister was beyond question. She could do without his whining though; the Lord Mayor was far too anxious about feeding the city. Who cared if more useless smallfolk perished? Less mouths to feed come winter.

"Your Grace?" Cersei turned to Prince Oberyn with a smile, as though she'd been listening the entire time. "A letter arrived from my nephew Trystane today; I thought you would wish to hear the latest news of our sweet Princess Myrcella."

"But of course."

The Dornish might be witty, and useful for irritating Mace Tyrell, but she misliked leaving her only daughter in their hands. All Dornishmen were snakes, the Martells worst of all. Myrcella wrote long letters of how kind they were, how her every whim was quickly met, but such words could not be trusted. Children would write as they were bidden; Sansa Stark was proof of that.

"Trystane writes that our princess is as happy as ever. He takes great pride in informing me that his betrothed recently bested Lady Alyse Ladybright at cyvasse, to the acclaim of the entire court."

The rest of the Dornish stared at the Red Viper, astonished, as though winning an obscure foreign game was some accomplishment.

"Myrcella was always a clever girl," Cersei said. "Have they yet departed for Dragonstone?"

With no other trueborn Baratheons left, Myrcella was Tommen's only heir. Making her Princess of Dragonstone solidified her claim and forced the Dornish to let her depart Sunspear, though unfortunately her betrothed would go with her. Thank the gods Myrcella was only twelve and still not flowered; Ser Kevan wanted her to wed Trystane Martell as soon as she came of age, so that she might begin birthing heirs.

Much as Cersei disliked that idea, the alternative was worse. If Mace Tyrell had his way, Tommen would wed Margaery as soon as he turned fourteen. Worse, Ser Kevan approved of the appalling notion. Boys of fourteen should not be bedding maids of twenty-two; she would be damned before she allowed such perversion.

"Not as of yet, Your Grace," Meria said, eyes lowered modestly. The queen approved; if nothing else, the bastard girl knew her place. "The autumn storms are too fierce; Princess Arianne would not risk Princess Myrcella sharing her grandfather's fate."

For a moment terror seized her, visions of shadowy assassins and bloody blades dancing before her eyes. Then the queen remembered. Robert's father, Lord Steffon Baratheon, had drowned in Shipbreaker Bay, along with his wife Cassana, when a sudden storm caught their ship and dashed it against the rocky shore.

"Seven forbid," said Lady Blackmont, making the sign of the Seven with a hand as dark as the vulture of her sigil. Ser Daemon and Meria quickly followed suit, but the Red Viper did not, nor did Cersei. Instead she drank deeply, ignoring the distant sound of thunder.

The rains continued for another week before strong winds finally blew the grey clouds away. Weary of council meetings, the queen ordered a hunt. Much as she enjoyed roasted boar, dining upon stag sounded even better. The hounds were raring to go, sick of being confined in their kennels, and the queen's horse nearly broke into a gallop when she briefly gave him his head.

If only the queen could gallop away from her ladies. She'd finally dismissed Cerissa Brax, unable to tolerate another moment of pious mourning, but there were still plenty of hens left to peck at her. Janna Fossoway and Meredyth Crane talked at her incessantly, one sharing old gossip, the other longwinded stories that might have been amusing if not for Lady Meredyth's grating voice. The queen answered them curtly, but it was still a good long while before they finally took the hint and left her be.

As Melesa Crakehall and Darlessa Marbrand despised hunting, she usually relied upon Meria Sand to distract the hens. Even in Dorne, bastards obeyed their betters from force of habit, and the girl was in awe of the queen. All Cersei had to do was quirk an eyebrow and the bastard girl would ride over, make a few noises of interest, and then draw the offending hen away from the queen, listening patiently to the clucking for hours at time, hours during which the hens left Cersei in peace.

Later, on the nights she served as the queen's bedfellow, Meria would report back with anything of use, though she never shared anything of note until the queen forced her to drink a cup of wine. Meria would hesitate for a moment, but she always yielded, though no other lords or ladies could persuade her to take a single sip at meals. From her drunken rambling the queen knew Lady Graceford was with child again several weeks before her pregnancy was announced, she knew that Janna Fossoway was upset with her goodsister Lady Alerie over some Tyrell family jewels, she knew that Lord Mace was vexed over his heir Willas's refusal to marry, she knew that Lord Randyll Tarly visited a mistress in the city, a revelation somehow both shocking and unsurprising.

Alas, Meria was useless when her moonblood was on her. Cersei's moonblood troubled her little; her breasts grew tender, and her joints ached, but that was all. She lacked the weakness of other women, who whined of nausea, headaches, and the like. Meria's suffering was even worse; her cramps were so severe she spent two days of the month hiding in her chambers, weeping and vomiting and clinging to that awful old black tomcat, a filthy, foul-tempered beast who'd once savaged Joff.

The call of a hunting horn echoed through the forest; Lord Randyll Tarly must have spotted the stag. The queen kicked her horse into a gallop, heading toward the sound of the horn, and soon found herself alone, but for her kingsguard, Ser Lyn Corbray, and one other rider in lush green skirts.

"Good morning, Your Grace," sang Lady Margaery, ringlets of chestnut hair artfully tumbling over her shoulders. Cersei forced herself to smile, though for half a groat she would have rather clawed the girl's eyes out. "Have you ever seen such a lovely morning? I feel as if my mare has wings."

"If only that were true." If the horse took flight, perhaps Margaery would fall off and break her little neck. Cersei was no fool, to be taken in by vapid smiles and pretty words. The Tyrell girl cared nothing for Tommen, only for the golden crown that would be hers once she wed the king.

In her ignorance, Margaery laughed. "A flying horse would be a sight to see. When Lord Caswell feasted Lord Renly, his cooks served spun-sugar unicorns and winged horses, to demonstrate their skill."

"I wonder whether Renly ever showed you what skills he had to offer." The words slipped out unbidden, but Cersei enjoyed the look of shock in Margaery's eyes as she reined her horse to a halt.

"I am a maid," Margaery declared, cheeks flushed from anger. "I shall know no man until I am wed."

"Oh? How strange. I could have sworn I once heard that your father meant to make you one of Robert's mistresses."

Margaery turned deathly pale, her brown eyes wide. "Vile calumny. I demand to know what man sold Your Grace such poisonous slander."

"It was the eunuch, if you must know, though he's hardly a man, is he?" Cersei tapped her chin, savoring the girl's rare loss of composure. "Only fourteen, and already plotting your way to the throne. Such a pity. At least when my lord father set his sights on Rhaegar Targaryen he meant to make me an honest bride, not a whore."

"That was long before my birth," Margaery said, her voice eerily calm. "Your Grace must forgive my ignorance, yet I seem to recall Rhaegar wed Elia of Dorne before he made off with Lyanna Stark. Was he visiting your bed in secret?"

Now it was Cersei's turn to redden with anger. "Insolent wench," she snarled. "You think to take my place, my crown? You will find no joy in it, I assure you. Women shall hate you for your beauty, and men shall hate you for your power. Fools and flatterers will be your constant companions, fear and doubt your bedfellows. Everyone wants a piece of your flesh, and they shall peck at you until you choke upon your screams."
With that Cersei kicked her horse to a gallop, leaving Margaery behind, speechless with shock and horror. How good it felt, to speak her mind at last. She almost pitied the girl; she might be a little snake, but she lacked Cersei's wits and fire. If she ever became queen, gods forbid, they would eat her alive.

Without the call of the horn, it took her some time to find the rest of the hunt. She found them in a sunny glade, the hounds sniffing about aimlessly. Lord Randyll Tarly's face was as hard as his voice as he reprimanded the hapless kennelmaster, who kept nervously glancing at the hilt of the Valyrian steel greatsword that poked over his shoulder.

The fall of Storm's End had taken almost three years. They had starved to death to the last man rather than open the gates; Tarly had been forced to smash them before he could enter the keep and raise the king's stag-and-lion banners. Although the maesters said Storm's End had never before fallen to a besieging force, neither the singers nor anyone else seemed to care much about Lord Tarly's less than glorious victory.

The only ones who cared were the flock of claimants who came forward, eager to provide lineages claiming descent from some long dead Baratheon. Cersei had forgotten that Steffon Baratheon had several much elder sisters; Robert had been even less close to them than he was to his mother's Estermont kin. Foremost among the claimants were Lord Morgan Dondarrion, Lord Gulian Swann, Lord Arstan Selmy, and Lord Ronnel Penrose.

To her dismay, Lord Ronnel's daughter, Lady Ellyn Chelsted, was among the lesser ladies who'd joined the hunt. The queen's dismay grew when Lady Ellyn caught her eye and rode over, her green and white cloak pinned by a silver mace and dagger brooch. Cersei expected to be regaled with yet another dull tale about Ser Cortnay Penrose, her dead brother, or pleas for assassins to be sent after Stannis Baratheon. Instead, the lady began expounding upon her descent from Lord Steffon's eldest sister.

"You seem to be under some misapprehension regarding Storm's End," the queen said, cutting her off. "It shall remain with Tommen, as it is his by right with one uncle dead and the other a traitor."

"No one wishes to see Stannis return to Storm's End, Your Grace, myself least of all." Lady Ellyn clenched a wrinkled fist, the wind tousling her grey hair. "But surely—"

"The matter is settled." Although… Meria had suggested Lady Ellyn was likely to quit King's Landing were she given adequate incentive. "I suppose King Tommen shall need a new castellan of proven loyalty. Did Ser Cortnay have any sons who share his valor?"

Gods be praised, he did. Ser Jon Penrose was the strong right arm of his elderly grandfather at Parchments, the seat of House Penrose, but his younger brother Ser Byron bore no such obligation.

"How old is Ser Byron?" The queen inquired. Cersei was pleased to learn he was but twenty, recently knighted. Only a little nudging was required before Lady Ellyn agreed to join her young nephew at Storm's End so that he might benefit from the wisdom of her experience.

Two problems solved in one, the queen thought smugly as Lord Randyll and Lord Mathis Rowan quarreled over which way the hunt should proceed. They were so occupied that neither noticed one of the hounds perk up, ears twitching, before running off into the brush. Had he scented the stag? Seeing blood spurt upon the ground was just what she needed to celebrate her victory over Margaery.

Then again, if the hunt followed her, like as not some fool would block her view of the sport. After checking to see that Ser Lyn Corbray was still bickering with some Reachermen, the queen slipped away, following the hound.

The hound's trail led her to a quiet forest stream, the sound of whistling growing louder as she approached. A lame horse drank water beside his rider, a man who stood up to his knees in the stream. His chest was bare, his breeches covered in filth, his hands washing mud from his silvery hair. Hearing the jingling of reins, he turned.

"A thousand pardons, Your Grace." Aurane Waters bowed deeply, water trickling down the lean muscles of his chest. "My mount missed his footing, and I tumbled into a puddle. How may I make amends for such impropriety?"

Was this what Rhaegar looked like? Cersei would never know, just as she did not know when Jaime would return. She hesitated for a moment, considering what to do about the warmth stirring her belly.

"Oh, I'm sure I can think of something," she purred as she dismounted.


Hoo boy, everybody sound off in the comments! :o

This chapter should have been up yesterday, but I'm also working on an accompanying oneshot, A Drowning Grief. Set during late 261 AC, we will see the fall of Castamere from the point of view of Gwendolyn Lydden, sister to Mordryd Lydden and cousin to Ellyn, Roger, and Reynard Reyne. It's, uh... gonna be a rather dark oneshot, given we all know how it ends. It should be up in the next few days, I hope you'll all check it out!

NOTES

1) Winter crops are, in fact, a thing, though only if the temperature remains above 25 degrees Fahrenheit. Also, while kale is infamous for being a recent fad, medieval people fucking LOVED kale. Tons of monasteries grew it in bulk!

2) Yes, I continue to queer things up in here, let's have a round of applause for Oberyn/Daemon. In this canon they did NOT sleep together until several years after the knight/squire relationship ended. Oberyn was 39, Daemon 22; that was the best I could manage within canon constraints.

3) Medieval women hunted; I checked. Trust Cersei to develop bloodlust the instant she didn't have to hunt with Robert.

4) In case anyone missed it, Meria is not a helpless babe who spills state secrets after 2 glasses of wine. She is, however, using a lifetime of dealing with her sisters to help her analyze Cersei and then play her like a qithara. Bel also enjoys this game, as does Oberyn. Mace Tyrell, on the other hand, only knows how to play the drums, so he's always pissing Cersei off.

5) A lot of this chapter is set up; you have to watch the margins for the upcoming crises to which Cersei is indifferent or oblivious