Mid September-Late October, 303 AC


The small council chamber shone in the light of a hundred flames. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling, their flames glittering off the crystals that hung between them. Torches blazed from iron sconces wrought in the shape of dragons; beeswax tapers set in golden candlesticks gleamed along the length of the long table. Last, and most welcome, was the roaring fire that crackled in the hearth behind the head of the table.

After the dark, chilly walk from Maegor's Keep, the queen was quite pleased to sink into the plump crimson cushions piled on the seat of her chair, the one directly to the king's right hand. As always, Cersei had taken care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was of crimson damask, slashed with cloth-of-gold and trimmed with ermine; her jewels were a golden tiara set with emeralds, ear drops to match, and a carcanet whose crowning glory was an emerald large as a pigeon's egg, set amongst a dozen rubies.

To the queen's profound irritation, the weather had shown no respect for her efforts. Winter had finally arrived in King's Landing a few moons past, and today the morning gloom had brought with it a light snowfall and heavy gusts. Her hair was damp from snow and mussed from the wind, with long strands caught in her earrings and her golden tiara tilted askew. Before her councillors could note her dishevelment, Cersei quickly tidied her hair, grateful for their distraction.

The queen regent was less grateful when she realized the cause of their distraction.

Against her better judgment, she had permitted Tommen to wear his new doublet. It was a gift from Lady Margaery, a monstrosity of plush black velvet that boasted the stag of House Baratheon lavishly embroidered in golden thread. When Tommen took his seat at the head of the table, every councillor was quick to praise how gallantly he looked in his father's colors, how regally he bore his new crown with its golden antlers and black diamonds.

His father's colors are crimson and gold, Cersei thought, annoyed. She much preferred the old crown, the one crusted with rubies. Alas, Tommen had somehow outgrown it before she thought to have a new one made, an oversight which her uncle Kevan had remedied to his liking, rather than to hers.

Tommen's presence at small council meetings was another one of Kevan's notions. Though the king was but a child twelve, her uncle thoughtful it needful for him to begin attending to affairs of state. Cersei meant to flatly refuse, until her uncle clarified that attending to affairs of state meant listening quietly whilst the queen regent and lord hand dealt with her councillors. At the end of each meeting, Uncle Kevan would ask Tommen questions over what he had heard, and answer the little king's questions.

At the moment, Tommen was accepting his councillors' flattery, beaming and smiling and complimenting their garb in turn. A waste of time, the queen thought, annoyed. When she had suffered all she could stomach, the queen gave her son a look that quelled his boyish enthusiasm and made him sit up very straight.

Unfortunately, her son did not long keep his kingly dignity. Whilst Uncle Kevan called the meeting to order from his place at the king's left hand, the king himself leaned half out of his seat, distracted by Ser Pounce. The ginger and white cat stood on his hind legs, one paw tentatively raised, his whiskers quivering as he sniffed at the king's mouth.

The queen regent could not chastise her son openly; it would only draw attention to his shame. Already knights and servants smiled at Tommen wherever he went, trailed by cats that followed after the king like ducklings and covered his tunics in their filthy hair. True, the cats pleased Tommen, and kept the rats from out of his chambers, but she would have not her son look like an utter fool.

Lord Mace Tyrell was saying something. His voice was far too loud for their close quarters, but perfect for her purposes. No one heard Tommen yelp when she gave him a quick, hard kick under the table, along with a look that would have melted stone. Cowed, the king sat up straight again, ignoring the cat to stare down the length of the table.

Cersei followed his gaze, eyeing the men she had chosen to assist her in ruling the Seven Kingdoms. Of old the small council was wont to have seven permanent members, as a sop to the Faith. At present, she had nine councillors, eight of whom sat at the table, the High Septon having not yet arrived. Some were of her own choosing, some foisted upon her by the folly of others, but all served solely at the queen regent's pleasure.

Thankfully she had been able to chose her own King's Hand, who now sat across from her. The past few years had taken the last of Ser Kevan Lannister's hair, save for the beard on his chin, which was now more grey than yellow. Old men did not receive the gifts of youth; instead the years had given him an increasingly nervous stomach, an aging heart whose irregular pulse set Pycelle to fretting, and, most recently, stiff hands marred by small, ugly warts on his palms. Even so, her uncle did not let his health trouble him overmuch. Uncle Kevan was as steadfast as Casterly Rock, cautious, prudent, every inch the faithful mastiff that he resembled thanks to his thick waist and square jutting jaw.

A mastiff her uncle might be, but one that was less obedient than she would like. Granted, he did not attempt to order her about as her father had. No, Ser Kevan was a second son, and used to following, not leading. Of course, that did not stop him from providing unwanted advice, but better a man of her own blood than anyone else.

Lord Gyles Rosby, master of coin, was also of her choosing, though the queen could not recall why she had appointed him. Certainly not for his looks. Though he was always pallid and wrinkled, with watery eyes and slumped shoulders, of late he looked positively grotesque. Lord Qyburn had finally managed to defeat Rosby's cough, banishing it from disturbing the queen's ears, but even Qyburn could not make the wealthy old lord comely. Though velvets and silks covered Rosby from head to toe, down to the thin silk gloves that covered his hands, there was no concealing Rosby's face. His eyes were dull, almost empty; his skin hung upon him like an ill-fitting gown, the flesh sallow and sagging.

Much as the queen would prefer not to look at Rosby any longer, removing him was not an option, unless she wanted yet another of Mace Tyrell's toadies foisted upon her. Cersei much preferred to be the one doing the foisting, like when she'd offered Lollys Stokeworth up as a bride for Rosby's ward. Not only did it remove Lollys Lackwit and her bastard son from the city, it also pleased Lady Tanda so much that she was willing to share a greater portion of Stokeworth's bounty with the Red Keep. And since his cough stopped, Lord Gyles was even more biddable than before, practically a puppet she might use at her leisure.

Thank the Seven for Qyburn, whose treatments had proved so much more effective than Pycelle's. Such good work demanded a great reward, but Uncle Kevan had forestalled her attempt to give Lord Qyburn the council seat he had so richly earned. A pity. Lord Qyburn was as wise as he was witty, and always ready to lend the queen his loyal support.

Grand Maester Pycelle was less obliging as of late. Though he was not of her choosing, once he had been a useful catspaw. Throughout Jon Arryn's tenure as hand Pycelle had kept Cersei well informed, providing her time to persuade Robert into filling offices with Lannister men, rather than those of the Stormlands or Vale. Now though, he was more apt to following Ser Kevan's lead than that of the queen, a betrayal she did not take lightly.

Varys the eunuch drew her ire next. The master of whisperers was always unctuous, but today his titters were so grating that she soon emptied her cup of Arbor gold, the wine soothing her frayed nerves. Cersei had hoped for word of Stannis's death, or of the Night's Watch and the wildlings attacking the north. Instead there was naught but rumors of blizzards at the Wall, the worst seen in a hundred years.

"Pah," Mace Tyrell blustered. "Exaggeration, surely."

"Surely," Varys agreed. "For there are also rumors of a host of wights beyond the Wall, led by the Others themselves."

A brief, stunned silence, a nervous chuckle, and then the whole table burst into raucous laughter. Even Cersei, who laughed until her ribs began to ache. Only the eunuch remained aloof, frowning. When the laughter finally quieted down, he pulled another parchment from the sleeve of his lavender robes.

"There are also reports of a mad beggar at Goldengrove who claims to be Garth Greenhand come again, of a water witch in the Planky Town, and of a phoenix seen over the Mountains of the Moon."

"Children's tales and drunkards' fancies," said Lord Mathis Rowan, his stout face bored. "What of dragons?"

Smiling once more, Varys informed the council there were no new reports since the start of ninth moon, a fortnight past. After many delays, the great fleet of Volantis would soon be setting sail to bring wrath and ruin down upon Daenerys Targaryen and the paper kingdom she had wrested from the slavers who dwelled at the far end of the world.

"Good," Cersei said, barely bothering to hide her displeasure.

These Volantenes were a lazy folk. She had hoped to hear of the last Targaryen's downfall by now. Really, how long could it take to overthrow a child queen? It was almost a year since Varys first claimed the triarchs were preparing for war. Cersei was glad she had set the pyromancers to preparing more of their substance, on the off chance that the Volantenes failed to finish the job.

The queen certainly couldn't trust her council to repel a foreign invasion.

Lord Mace Tyrell, her master of laws, spent most of his time wining and dining the patricians of the city, basking in their empty flattery. Unless, of course, he was busy with the small council, whose time he wasted quibbling endlessly with the queen. Cersei could not propose even a single edict to restore the king's peace without suffering a patient smile followed by Tyrell's impertinent advice. Edicts to promote commerce and the proper collection of taxes also met with dissent and defiance. He even dared complain over the crown's refusal to permit the Reach to bolster their coffers by selling food to Robb Stark and his band of traitorous lords.

For half a groat she'd gladly have the Red Viper poison Tyrell's wine. Prince Oberyn Martell made no secret of his knowledge of dark potions. Nightshade and arsenic, gentle sweetsleep and subtle tears of Lys, he knew them all as well as he knew his many bastards. For a moment Cersei imagined Lord Mace sitting dead on his privy, courtesy of the cruel widow's blood, which shut down the bladder and bowels and drowned a man in his own poisons. Next she imagined him writhing in agony, covered in a dozen wounds that rotted and mortified as manticore venom ate away at his flesh.

Of course, she could never trust a Dornishman with such a task. Not even Prince Oberyn, who often strove against Mace Tyrell and Ser Kevan on her behalf when they suggested half measures of her proposed edicts. Ser Kevan was like to notice the master of laws dropping dead, and if he suspected Cersei was to blame... a Lannister he might be, but he lacked the iron will which Cersei had inherited from her father. Tywin would have understood the need to quietly remove a troublesome foe, but Kevan would not. Her uncle would pack her off to Casterly Rock or a motherhouse before the fat flower's corpse grew cold.

The queen herself was rather cold at the moment, thanks to a draft from the open door as the High Septon bustled in, wrapped in so many furs that it looked rather like someone had bestowed the crystal crown upon a bear. His High Holiness was red as a beet, but even winter could not prevent him from showing due courtesy to the queen regent and the rest of the council. The High Septon apologized most eloquently for his late arrival, citing the iciness of the streets and the difficulties of traveling down from the Great Sept of Baelor atop Visenya's Hill and up the rise of Aegon's Hill to the Red Keep.

"Do take care, your High Holiness," Prince Oberyn drawled. "It would most unfortunate were you to slip on all this dreadful ice. Why, you might find yourself sliding to Rhaenys's Hill instead."

Mace Tyrell frowned, Aurane Waters laughed, and the queen bit back a smile. Before being elevated to High Septon, Raynard had been known for frequenting the many whores to be found along the Street of Silk, near the bottom of the hill of Rhaenys. His elevation to High Septon had not dulled his appetites, nor improved his discretion much.

"We had intended to arrive early," the High Septon said reproachfully, ignoring the jab. "But we were delayed by some trouble among the Most Devout."

Cersei made the proper sympathetic noises, shaking her head at the audacity of those who dared ignore the voice of the Seven upon the earth. She had thought expelling the seventy or so Most Devout who opposed Raynard's elevation would rid her of any trouble with the Faith. And so it seemed, until the High Septon agreed to forgive the debt the crown owed to the Faith.

That had set idle tongues to wagging. Some of the boldest dared suggest that the High Septon could not forgive the debt of nearly a million dragons, not without the approval of the Most Devout. At the queen's urging, Raynard had packed those naysayers off to the Starry Sept in Oldtown, where their prattling could be more easily ignored.

"Not talk of treason, I hope," Ser Kevan said, his thick brow furrowed.

"No, my lord," the High Septon tsked. "Just the foolishness of those whose tender hearts outweigh their good sense." The High Septon turned to the queen regent. "I am nearly finished with my sermon against these heretics and knaves who disturb the king's peace."

"And I am sure his Low Holiness will soon respond," japed Aurane Waters, her master of ships. "Once someone lifts him up to reach his desk."

Cersei laughed despite herself. "Come now, my lord admiral," she said, "That presumes the High Dwarf is capable of reading. I doubt he could manage it, even if the words were as short and simple as he is."

That provoked another titter of laughter amongst her councillors, much to her satisfaction. Men busy laughing at the High Dwarf were less like to take his pretensions seriously. The vile little imp was proving to be a thorn in her side more than Tyrion could ever hope to be. Hideous, lowborn creature that he was, the dwarf dared pronounce an anathema upon the queen regent and her children, condemning her as an harlot and her children as abominations, bastards born of incest who ought to be given to the Stranger's mercy.

Ser Bonifer Hasty and his Holy Hundred should have brought the damn imp back to King's Landing as he had sworn to do. Instead, the addlepated old stork had joined the heretics of Harrenhal. Worse, the eunuch's informant among the Most Devout had suddenly gone silent, or so she suspected when his extensive reports suddenly dwindled to mere scraps.

Uncle Kevan was still chuckling as his son Ser Willem poured more blackberry wine into his father's cup, a sour look upon his pimpled face. Properly, the cupbearer should have filled the queen regent's cup first. Not that Cersei was surprised at the discourtesy. When word came of a pox in Lannisport, back in third moon, Kevan's recently knighted twin sons had taken to hovering over their father, as if boys of nineteen were useful for anything but fighting and fucking. The habit had only worsened in fifth moon, when word came that their mother and sister had caught the pox.

Chinless, flat-chested Dorna had survived; Janei, a child of six, had not. The shock of the blow made Ser Kevan take to his bed, Ser Willem to the sept, and Ser Martyn to the training yard. Ser Addam Marbrand said he'd never seen his former squire so fierce, though the youth had always been of a martial bent. As a child Martyn had made no secret of the fact that his dearest wish was to one day be worthy of duelling his cousin Ser Jaime.

Thankfully, her uncle had arisen after a few days of prayer and rest, though his aspect was that of a lonesome hound moreso than a doughty mastiff. Something had to be done. Lacking better options, Cersei had been forced to do a thing she had sworn she would never do: send a raven to Dorna Swyft.

Her uncle's wife was a simple creature, unsuited to court, but the day her ship docked in the harbor was the first day the queen saw Uncle Kevan smile in weeks. Doubtless when he returned to the Tower of the Hand he would find a midday meal of his favorite dishes awaited him, along with the bevy of Swyft cousins who attended his wife, all of them as pious and dimwitted as their lady.

It is well that she gives him comfort, Cersei thought to herself as Ser Kevan asked the High Septon questions about his upcoming sermon, which was to be sent throughout the Seven Kingdoms once it was finished. Stannis Baratheon had given her the idea, with his vile letters. But the queen would not need to have letters smuggled into towns by onion knights and nailed to the doors of septs and inns. No, ravens would carry the High Septon's sermon to every lord sworn to Tommen. Every maester would set his scribes to making further copies; every septon would preach the word of His High Holiness from his pulpit.

Much as the High Septon's efforts pleased her, another councillor pleased her far more.

"Again," she commanded, tugging at Aurane's silver hair.

The small council meeting had adjourned shortly before midday, the councillors pulling on their furs to brave the wind and thickly falling snow. All save the lord admiral, whom she required to discuss a number of issues with the king's fleet too dull to bother the rest of the council with.

"We are not to be disturbed," the queen informed Ser Lyn Corbray, who stood guard at the entrance to the council chambers, his white cloak snapping in the wind. Ser Lyn nodded, his restless eyes watching the rest of the councillors take their leave. Seven be thanked for a man with a purse as hollow as his conscience; her secrets would never pass his lips.

And what a pleasant secret Aurane Waters was proving to be. The Bastard of Driftmark was ten years the queen's junior, with a lean build that reminded her of Jaime in his youth. Or Rhaegar. The queen had commanded Aurane to douse every light before they began, all those save the fire in the hearth and the lamps overhead. In the dim light it was easier to ignore the grey-green in his eyes and the cleft in his chin, especially if they coupled in a position that did not require looking the bastard in the face.

At the moment they were coupling on the Myrish rug before the hearth. The smoke of the fire covered the scent of their musk; she preferred this to coupling in her solar or in her bed, where there was far more likelihood of some nosy maid or little bird noticing aught amiss and running to Ser Kevan or to Varys. Ser Kevan had Dorna, and his monthly visits to the Street of Silk; Lord Randyll Tarly had a mistress; Pycelle had his serving girls; even Prince Oberyn had his sordid affair with Ser Daemon. Why should the queen go without the occasional indulgence, when every man around her was led about by the worm between his legs?

After, they talked of the queen's navy, lest there be any awkward questions as to her time together with the young lord admiral. When the old lord admiral returned, it would be much more difficult to find excuses to meet with Aurane; she might have to give him up entirely. Thank the gods Paxter Redwyne and his fleet were still occupied with the ironborn.

Victarion Greyjoy, the absurd ironman calling himself King of the Isles, continued to make trouble. For the past six moons his reavers had struck Fair Isle again and again. They had carried off all the gold, silver, and gems to be found in their treasuries, all the arms and armor in their armories, dozens of women both high and lowborn, and hundreds of thralls. Slowed by winter storms, Lord Redwyne's fleet had not managed to catch the ironborn until they were fleeing Fair Isle with their plunder. He had sunk a few longships, but lost just as many of his own. Fool. At least Redwyne had prevented Greyjoy from descending upon Lannisport.

Still, that was no excuse for the rest of his incompetence. Redwyne and Lord Farman had not only failed to bring Victarion Greyjoy to heel, but they had let his mad niece ride roughshod over the shores between the Banefort and Feastfires. Asha Greyjoy was doubtless an ugly, manly creature; men said she was wed to an axe, and crewed her ship with scum who had to close their eyes to fuck her.

The wench must know as many pillow tricks as a Lyseni whore; there was no other explanation for her reavers' odd behavior. They had not seized any salt wives, nor thralls. Nor had they hunted high and low for every scrap of gold. Instead, they had emptied every granary and cellar within ten leagues of the coast, and stolen as many cattle as they could cram onto their stolen cogs.

"When the royal fleet is ready," the queen said, tidying her hair, "you must scourge the islands clean for me."

"Gladly, Your Grace," Aurane said with a smile. "Though I should yearn for you every day that we are parted."

He lays on flattery with a trowel, Cersei thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

Much as she enjoyed the odes to her beauty that were her due, she knew Waters was more enamored of the chance to secure his own seat than he was by her many charms. Driftmark was out of the question, alas. Aurane's trueborn nephew Monterys, a boy of ten, had promptly bent the knee after his father died upon the Blackwater, and the Dowager Lady Velaryon had disavowed all of her husband's kinsmen that had sailed north with Stannis. No, she could not strip Driftmark from them, not after Tywin Lannister had seen fit to confirm their title. Pyke, though...

"Just as I shall yearn for you," the queen sighed. "Yet if you were to take the isles by storm, why, no man could gainsay the king bestowing them upon you as a reward for your leal service."

And if Waters failed, well, dead men could not wag their tongues. Pretty though he was, Aurane was too sly for her liking, and prone to a bastard's base lusts. The brothel madam Bel reported that he favored her girls frequently, especially pale haired wenches in the fresh bloom of their youth. Waters had no idea that the queen knew; he thought her habit of raking his back with her nails and marking him with her teeth was mere pillow play, not the lioness marking her territory.

Yes, the queen would be glad when her strength at sea was ready and she could send Lord Waters on his way to death or glory. Thus far she had ten dromonds, a pitiful fleet compared to the two hundred warships the Redwynes boasted before the storms and the ironborn took their toll. More dromonds were being built, but not nearly enough of them.

Ser Kevan would not cease dithering over the royal coffers. The Iron Throne still owed nearly three million dragons to House Lannister, another two million to the Iron Bank of Braavos, and a million to the Tyroshi trading cartels and Lord Mace Tyrell. Gyles Rosby was utterly useless at finding coin. As the queen refused to take loans from the fat flower, and as the Tyroshi cartels were too busy fighting their slaves to make loans, she had been forced to rely on the Iron Bank. She was inclined to take out another loan, to pay for a navy that would smash the ironborn. Unfortunately, Ser Kevan grew so faint at the idea that she had set it aside for now, lest he die of a burst heart like his sire old Lord Tytos.

When the queen returned to her apartments, it was to find Meria Sand playing hostess to a cacophony of lords and ladies. There were always a few of them waiting when the queen returned from meeting with the small council. Though too important to be ignored, they were also too irritating for Cersei to trouble herself with for long.

The queen greeted her fawning subjects with a smile as merry as it was false. She complimented the aging Lady Blackmont on her new silver brooch, saying nothing of how shabby it looked against the woman's dirt brown skin. She praised Lord Dagos Manwoody and his wife Corinna's renewed vigor after a bad bout of winter fever, and asked after Ser Myles Manwoody, who was still confined to his bed.

"Your Grace," Meria gasped when the queen reached her. "That gown— why, I have never seen its equal. Such rich fabric, so many peerless gems! Even a goddess could not hope to dress so well."

A lesser woman might have preened; Cersei merely smiled. "You are too kind, my lady. I hope you have been keeping my subjects well entertained."

"Indeed, Your Grace," said Lord Mordryd Lydden. He sat beside Meria on a plush couch, leaning close, as if to whisper in the bastard girl's ear. Or look down her bodice, more likely.

When the lord arrived in King's Landing, Cersei had quickly grown tired of his dramatic ranting and raving about the outlaws who'd driven him from his lands and taken his children captive. Really, there were mummers who were less flamboyant when playing the part of some outraged malcontent. Of course the crown wished to see these outlaws quashed, but there was no reason the queen must suffer Lydden's whining.

Thank the Seven she had Meria. A few hints about the loneliness of widowers sufficed to thrust Lydden into the bastard girl's arms and her bed in short succession. The bastard girl might play the demure maiden in mixed company, but she was as randy a wench as any of Bel's slatterns. Lord Varys reported that Meria was wont to visit Lord Lydden's solar all alone, just as she sometimes visited Ser Daemon Sand of the Kingsguard, Ser Jacelyn Bywater of the City Watch, and, on occasion, various other lesser lords and knights when they were briefly in the city.

Of course, the silly girl did try to hide her lustful ways, if ineptly. For every hour Meria spent with her many lovers, she spent three with the queen's ladies-in-waiting, keeping a close eye on Lady Margaery for the queen. Darlessa Marbrand was good for a jape at Lady Margaery's expense, but far too self-absorbed to serve as a useful informer. Melesa Crakehall might have served, but she was confined to her chambers, even fatter than usual thanks to the child she was carrying for her oaf of a husband.

The last day of ninth moon found the queen meeting with her council yet again. It was task that required all her patience, along with a good deal of wine. For the little king there was hippocras, for the queen and her councillors, Arbor gold and Dornish red. Ser Kevan refused them all, preferring his usual blackberry wine.

Lord Lydden had brought an entire wayn packed full of casks of blackberry wine from Deep Den. Hiding among the casks was how he'd snuck past the brigands and outlaws who'd taken over his keep. Sweet and tart, the wine was highly prized by those fond of blackberries. Lydden had gifted the finest vintage to the King's Hand, doubtless hoping it would persuade Ser Kevan to act more swiftly.

As the queen did not like blackberries, nor tart wines, she kept to her Arbor gold. It tasted even sweeter than usual today, smooth as sunshine on her tongue. She did not realize she had already drained her cup until Willem appeared to refill it.

"Let us begin with our enemies," the queen said. She turned to the eunuch, powdered and perfumed as always. "You promised fresh reports from the Vale; what news do you have for us?"

Varys tittered, a silken smile upon his lips. "Such delicious tidings, Your Grace. A week past, Ser Brynden Tully at last reached the Eyrie, intent on persuading Lady Lysa Arryn to come down before the winter storms grow even fiercer. Alas, the Lady Lysa refused, claiming the journey too perilous for her sickly son."

"Less perilous than freezing to death, surely," said Lord Rowan. "Or starving."

The eunuch nodded obsequiously. "Quite right, my lord. Yet even mad women may yet have some mother's instinct. The trails are choked with snow and ice, my informers say, and plagued by frozen winds. Upon descending from the Eyrie, a gust caught Ser Brynden and his knights on the narrow path betwixt the waycastles of Snow and Sky. The Blackfish broke a leg, and half a dozen of his men fell off the mountain, along with as many mules."

The victory was even sweeter than Arbor gold; the queen favored the eunuch with a smile. "With the Eyrie cut off, they shall starve in weeks."

"Not so, Your Grace," Pycelle objected. "Little though they may like the Lady Lysa, Jon Arryn's bannermen would never let his son Robert die such a cruel death. No matter the peril, supplies shall flow up the mountain so long as they have smallfolk to spare."

"Our good Grand Maester is wise as always," Varys simpered. "Royce and Redfort, Waynwood and Belmore, Templeton and Grafton, all sent children to foster with little Lord Arryn, and the wards remain atop the Eyrie with the boy and his mother."

"Foster children?" The queen snorted. "That cow would sooner starve herself to death than let a single snot-nosed brat near her precious little Robert."

"Robb Stark left Lady Lysa no choice," the eunuch told them.

"What does it matter?" Aurane Waters said dryly. "Unless their mules have wings to catch the wind, the supplies shall be blown off the mountain just like Ser Brynden. We need only wait; soon enough the Vale lords shall be fighting amongst themselves to produce an Arryn cousin, those that aren't fighting Robb Stark for sending their sons to die."

"True," Ser Kevan said, frowning. Drops of sweat beaded his brow; one hand clutched at his belly. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, my lords, if you will excuse me."

Whilst her uncle sought out the freezing privy, the rest of the councillors fell to idle chatting. Pycelle took it upon himself to question Tommen on his knowledge of the Vale, leaving the queen free to converse with her councillors about the plague upon the realm that was Lysa Arryn and her sickly son.

Cersei had disliked Lysa long before she wed Jon Arryn and turned into an anxious hen. Lord Tywin would have inflicted the simpering cow on Jaime, had Cersei not forestalled him. A few light hints in made in the hearing of King Aerys had seen to that. In place of draping a crimson cloak over Lysa's weak shoulders, Aerys had draped a white cloak over Jaime's.

The witless hen had no idea how close she'd come to ruining everything. Cersei, though, Cersei knew, and she did not forget when she came to King's Landing to wed Robert. To her fury, she found Lysa Tully acting as lady of the court, thanks to her marriage to Jon Arryn, Hand of the King. Lysa was but a girl of sixteen, already fat with her first child, and very anxious as to whether the babe would be a boy. Her lord husband was a man of sixty-six; she must give him heirs as quickly as possible if she was to have any hope of winning his affections.

Cersei soon put the little bitch in her place. One by one she charmed the ladies of the Vale who waited upon Lysa, ensuring their first loyalty was to the queen, not their dimpled, delicate lady. In Jon Arryn's hearing the queen was sweet as summerwine; in private, she enjoyed taunting his wife with barbed compliments and cutting remarks.

Eventually Lysa began complaining to her husband, but when Jon Arryn approached Cersei, she had put on an air of concerned dismay. Eyes wide, the queen had feigned shock and surprise at the very idea that she would be so unkind to a pregnant woman, let alone one who was already fretting at shadows and bursting into tears at the least provocation. Perhaps bed rest might suit the lady's fragile temperament and ensure the birth of a healthy son?

And so Lysa Tully spent most of her long succession of pregnancies, stillbirths, and miscarriages confined to her rooms, forbidden to walk the gardens, ride through the city, or do aught else that might lead to her annoying Cersei with her unwelcome presence. The queen did visit her occasionally, of course, when she was in a mood to sharpen her claws on a helpless adversary.

Talking of the world beyond the Tower of the Hand was always good for a few tears; when Cersei visited shortly after Joffrey's birth, to show off her healthy babe, the look on Lysa's face had been most satisfying, as was the sound of smashing glass as soon as the queen quit the room. Soon after Lysa had fled to the Eyrie, there to suffer two more miscarriages, before Jon Arryn forced her to return so he could keep an eye on her.

Alas, Lysa had finally managed to produce a living babe, not three moons after Tommen's birth. Robert had insisted that his puny namesake be raised alongside Tommen, a command which infuriated both queen and cow. Even watching Joffrey torment the little brat until he began shaking and his mother began shrieking did not make up for the plague of Lysa's presence.

"A most tiresome woman," Mace Tyrell said, when the queen had finished regaling them with a few choice tales of Lysa's madness. "Poor Jon Arryn; small wonder his son was born so sickly."

"Maybe he's gotten better, now that he's older."

Every eye turned to Tommen. Her son had the grace to blush, but not the wits to stop talking.

"I liked playing with Robin, when we were small." Tommen turned to the High Septon, light glinting off the golden crown atop his golden curls. "We should pray for poor Robin's health, and for him to cast off his evil councillors. It isn't his fault that his mother and his lords are traitors; he doesn't have good and honorable advisers like I do."

"Your Grace is kind to say so," said Prince Oberyn, a strange look in his dark viper eyes. The Dornishman toasted the king with a cup of Dornish red, and had drained his cup before Mace Tyrell finished with his rapturous praise of the king's merciful heart.

Thankfully, at that point Ser Kevan finally returned from the privy, and the council returned to the business of the realm.

The Stormlands continued to thunder with the clash of lords squabbling over lands and killing each other over grudges both ancient and new. Old Lord Ronnel Penrose had finally breathed his last, and now the Wyldes and the Mertyns were trespassing on the vast expanse of the northern Rainwood whose timber and game belonged by rights to the new Lord of Parchments.

Lord Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall was warring with Lord Philip Foote, the new lord of Nightsong. A Morrigen bastard was gathering freeriders and outlaws to take Crow's Nest, the keep of his traitorous kinsmen; a pair of knights sworn to the Bucklers were allegedly raiding Trant villages; a band of mad begging brothers were urging the smallfolk to follow Ser Bonifer Hasty's example and abandon the High Septon for the High Dwarf.

Such disorder did not please the queen, not when every lord and landed knight owed fealty to Tommen not only as king but as the Lord of Storm's End. His castellan, Ser Byron Penrose, begged her leave to either call the banners to subdue the battling lords, or to issue summons requiring them to come to Storm's End and lay their disputes before the castellan's judgment.

Ser Bryon's audacity also did not please the queen. "It is not a castellan's place to settle such disputes," she declared. Cersei had not forgotten the Penroses' attempt to steal Storm's End from under her nose.

"But, Your Grace," said Mace Tyrell, gaping at her stupidly. "The king's laws must be upheld. If not by King Tommen's castellan, then by who?"

A delightful notion seized Cersei, so sweet she almost laughed. "Why, who better than the master of laws, the father of his bride to be?"

Lord Mace puffed up like a pigeon in winter. "I am loathe to leave His Grace for even an hour, but for the sake of his heirs..."

On and on Tyrell prattled, nearly insensible at the honor with which he was being entrusted. Cersei was tempted to change her mind when Mace began blathering about the future grandchildren they would share. It was not enough that his son Garlan's wife was already with child, and seemed like to give birth shortly after the beginning of the new year.

No, Mace had to hint yet again at the advantages of the king marrying his betrothed sooner than later. He was appallingly eager to see his precious daughter spread her legs for a mere child, an eagerness Cersei strongly doubted Lady Margaery shared. The girl was more like to find some young knight with golden hair and cuckold the king the moment his back was turned.

Not that Mace would ever admit his daughter to be capable of such betrayal. No, he insisted she would be just as skilled at providing heirs as she was at everything else. A son for the Iron Throne, a son for Storm's End, a son for the Citadel and a son for the Faith, and three plump princesses to gladden their mother's heart. All were sired, born, and named before Ser Kevan finally brought the meeting back to order.

Her patience at an end, the queen dealt swiftly and decisively with the rest of the strife which plagued her realm. The peasants threatening revolt against Lady Tanda Stokeworth were to be handled by Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard and his pick of knights and men-at-arms from those present within the city. When finished, Ser Balon would turn to Duskendale, where the Rykkers were beset by robber knights who refused to let food in or out of the town without being paid their due.

When Ser Balon and his men rode forth a few days later, it was with the queen's blessing to take decisive action. Cersei would not have defiant peasants coddled. She would not have prolonged trials held for disloyal knights whose guilt was already known to all the world. No, Ser Balon must sharply chastise the smallfolk and slay the knights, lest the trouble in the crownlands spread to Dragonstone.

Dragonstone. Even the name was foreboding, fantastical, as though enchanted with some ancient spell. Once Cersei had thought to rule the seat of the Targaryens as Rhaegar's wife. Now, her daughter ruled the seat in her own name as Tommen's heir.

Myrcella's ship had paused in King's Landing only briefly on the way from Dorne to Dragonstone. For a fortnight Cersei enjoyed her company, though her enjoyment dimmed each time some lackwit said that someday the princess would be even more beautiful than her mother the queen. Myrcella was lovely, of course, just like all her children, but her smile was a little too wide and too free. Like Jaime's.

Nor did the queen enjoy listening to her daughter gush over her Dornish betrothed, or the many, many games of cyvasse they played to while away their afternoons. Thank the gods Ser Arys Oakheart had confirmed there was no impropriety from Trystane Martell, though it was only a matter of time. When Cersei sent her daughter on her way, it was with a delicate cyvasse set made from featherlight golden wire and set with tiny rubies, and with a lecture to remember the importance of a princess's virtue being utterly beyond question.

The beginning of tenth moon saw more flurries of snow. Thank the Seven they quickly melted away beneath the sun. Lord Mordryd had finally raised sufficient freeriders to take back his keep, and was due to sail for Lannisport before the week was out.

But first, he had begged leave to dine with his liege, the Lady of the Casterly Rock, and with her uncle the King's Hand. A dull courtesy, but one she must perforce grant. At least it was an evening away from Lady Margaery, who had taken her cousins and the ladies of the Reach to see a mummer's show.

"Was Lydden always so craven?" Cersei asked her uncle as they waited for their guest to arrive. Lord Lydden had gathered a rather excessive number of freeriders before he declared himself ready to deal with the rabble who had taken Deep Den.

In answer, Ser Kevan shrugged wearily.

"Not that I heard of. Lord Mordryd fought bravely in the Greyjoy Rebellion, but I know little else of the man. I suppose he fears for his children. He told me his sons were gravely wounded when Deep Den fell, and his daughters are all young unspoiled maids. If the rabble yield them up unharmed, he means to grant them the mercy of a life of serfdom; if not, he means to torture them all to death."

Lord Mordryd finally arrived shortly before the first course, ready with profuse apologies. Her cook always provided a sumptuous repast worthy of the queen's table, but tonight she had outdone herself. Every dish was made in the fashion of the Westerlands, from the rich fish soups favored in Lannisport to the rare roast beef favored in the Pendric Hills. Fresh blackberries like those grown at Deep Den were long out of season, but the sweetbreads were packed with dried blackberries, and the piping hot tarts were filled with blackberries preserved in honey.

"Your Grace is too kind," Mordryd said as he waited for his tart to cool. "We Lyddens are fond of blackberries. As a boy I was wont to stuff my face with fresh berries; my sister usually washed me off before our mother could catch me at it."

"Really? I cannot imagine Lady Briony holding with such nonsense."

Cersei had only met Jeyne Farman's Lydden mother once or twice. She vaguely recalled the woman as stern and stiff. It was no surprise that the old dowager had survived the ironborn raids whilst her son Lord Sebaston Farman sailed hither and yon to no avail.

"I should think he means Lady Lysa Lydden," Ser Kevan corrected her. "Ser Addam Marbrand's mother, you remember, the one with the palsy."

Mordryd smiled sadly. "Neither, my lord. I didn't expect you to remember, but I had a third sister, who perished at a young age."

Ser Kevan gave a sorrowful shake of his head. "My apologies, I had forgotten."

"It has been many years," Lord Mordryd sighed. "I daresay very few remember Gwendolyn, save those who knew her well."

Shortly thereafter her uncle begged both their apologies, leaving them alone whilst he sought out the privy. Cersei used the time to upbraid Ser Willem, who kept muttering to himself about swans and sawdust as he stood at the side of the table, waiting to refill their cups. Her uncle might be losing his hearing, but the queen was not. She much preferred her young cousin's usual laughter over the obnoxious piety he'd taken up since his sister's death. Lady Dorna's influence, no doubt; the woman was so devout she ought to have become a septa.

"Has there been any news of the Westerlands of late, Your Grace?" Lord Mordryd asked when she had sent the sullen boy to the kitchens for more Arbor gold. "I should like to know what awaits me upon my return, but Ser Kevan has looked so poorly of late that I preferred not to add to his burdens."

"I thank you for your concern, my lord. Deep Den is not the only fief afflicted with a plague of unruly peasants, I fear."

Though it did seem to have more of them than anywhere else, save Casterly Rock. Really, it was almost miraculous that Lydden had managed to escape them without being slain. Granted, if Cersei were Lord of Deep Den, she would have called her banners and killed them all at the first hint of treason. Instead, Lord Mordryd had tried negotiating with the same rabble who had slain his brother and flung his corpse at the gates of Deep Den.

Then again, calling the banners had done little good for Daven Lannister. The son of her mother's brother Stafford, Daven was a blunt and jovial man, a born warrior, if not near the equal of Jaime. When her castellan Damion Lannister sought his aid in putting the smallfolk in their place, Daven had quickly raised a force of knights and men-at-arms, and just as quickly died when outlaws ambushed their camp during a blinding storm.

Her cousin Ser Lucion Lannister had survived, and was currently wreaking bloody vengeance on those responsible for the death of a Lannister, as well as all those who gave them shelter. Gods forbid if anything should happen to Damion or Lucion. They were the last male cousins left to her besides Willem and Martyn. Cersei did not like the notion of being forced to rely upon Lannisters of Lannisport to carry out her will.

Ser Kevan Lannister finally returned as the queen regent was telling Lord Mordryd of the new edicts which would restore peace and order to the Westerlands. Her uncle gave a distant nod as he sank back into his seat, one hand still clutching his belly. Though wary of her notion of letting Mace Tyrell sort out the Stormlands, her uncle fully approved of the hard lesson she meant to teach the troublesome peasants of the Westerlands.

Alas, they were not the only peasants who required the queen's attention. The days later found Cersei riding through the city, taking advantage of the warmest day in weeks. Though the snow was long since melted, it had left the roads a mire of mud and slush. Still, the city must be reminded of who ruled them from atop Aegon's Hill, and that meant occasionally descending from her keep to grace them with her presence.

Usually the queen was joined by the lord hand. Unfortunately, Ser Kevan was plagued not only by his poor digestion, which seemed to be growing worse, but by a sore throat. Cersei blamed the cold winds, as did Pycelle. She would have preferred that Qyburn examine her uncle, after the wonders he had worked with Lord Gyles. Uncle Kevan, nothing if not loyal, refused to do Pycelle the insult of seeking Qyburn's opinion. Hopefully the queen could wear him down; she'd caught him glancing at Gyles more than once, as if considering the benefits of heeding her advice.

Even without her uncle, the queen was quite capable of putting on a show for the mob. The Kingsguard Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Daemon Sand rode at the head of the company, clad all in white with their squires at their sides. Tommen followed them closely, garbed in black fur, crimson velvet, and his golden crown. As usual, the king rode alone. The queen would not have Lady Margaery or Ser Loras stealing the fickle love of the commons from her son.

Cersei rode closest to the king, with the lord of Horn Hill at her side. The rest of her retinue trailed behind. Lord Mathis Rowan wore a cloak of grey fur and a scowl as Lord Tremond Gargalen filled his ear with tales of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, interrupted by the occasional question from Meria Sand. Lord Aurane Waters, Lady Janna Fossoway, and Lord Hallyne the Pyromancer of the Alchemists' Guild completed the party.

"These lowborn scum require a firm hand, Your Grace," Lord Randyll Tarly told her as they rode down the King's Way.

"Too true, my lord," Cersei agreed, giving Lord Tarly a nod of approval. "My lord father oft said the smallfolk are like cattle. You cannot reason with the herd, save with a whip." She wrinkled her nose as they passed a pair of men dragging a limp corpse from the gutter. "They certainly stink like cattle."

Though the city always stank to high heaven, an outbreak of bloody flux had made matters even worse. Ser Jacelyn and his goldcloaks were hard pressed to clear the dead from the streets. At the lord mayor's command the bodies were being piled in the dragonpit; at the queen's command, this evening Lord Hallyne would burn them.

They were nearing the Great Sept of Baelor when some fool at the back of the throng had the nerve to scream at the queen. To her dismay, the pox-scarred begging brother managed to shout 'brotherfucker' twice before the goldcloaks seized him. Thank the Seven Tommen had ridden slightly further ahead, eager for his meeting with the High Septon. The queen could act more boldly without need to consider his squeamishness. A nod from Cersei, and a goldcloak cut out the sparrow's tongue, the gush of blood sending smallfolk fleeing back to their wooden hovels.

The queen did not like the silence that followed that unpleasantness.

"A punishment should always fit the crime," she said at last, as they passed the Great Sept. Ser Addam Marbrand had escorted Tommen inside already; their horses waited for them at the bottom of the marble steps.

To her relief, Tarly jerked his head in a stiff nod. Thank the Seven that the bastard Edric Storm had died with the rest of the garrison at Storm's End. Randyll Tarly was narrow-minded but shrewd; the boy's resemblance to Robert would not have helped matters. Even after his death, Robert found ways to gall her. Even this trip to the Great Sept was his fault. When wretched Ser Loras gifted Tommen with a warhammer, nothing would do but the High Septon must bless it.

Thankfully, the queen would not need to suffer through an interminable sermon flattering King Robert and his prowess in battle. Whilst Tommen was occupied at the Great Sept, Cersei and her court rode through the rest of the city, putting on a grand display for the miserable masses who could not tell rubies from garnets.

Most of their ride was spent commiserating over the ingratitude of the commons. Matters were even worse in the barbarous Free Cities across the narrow sea. Lord Aurane informed them there was talk along the docks of a slave revolt in Volantis; sailors claimed a pair of dragons had burnt the entire city to the ground.

Utter nonsense, of course. Lord Varys had informed the council of the fire in Volantis several days past. Cities were always vulnerable to fire, with so many wooden hovels packed close together. Discontented slaves with flint and tinder were likely to blame, not dragons. The eunuch said Daenerys Stormborn remained in Meereen, beset by enemies. Even better, her dragons were small and twisted, unable to fly or breathe flame. The last of the Targaryen dragons had been similarly pitiful; the eunuch had produced their shrunken, misshapen skulls from a dusty cellar to show the council.

Lord Aurane was not convinced. Like all sailors, he loved wild tales founded on meager scraps of truth, and argued most stridently with a skeptical Meria Sand, who demanded he share every rumor in unnecessary detail. Cersei barely attended to their quarreling over the imaginary dragons and their equally imaginary riders. Instead she half-listened to Lord Tarly, who held forth at great length on the degeneracy of the Volantenes.

It was bad enough that the Volantenes followed the false gods of old Valyria, rather than the Warrior. The Valyrian dragonlords had ridden to war themselves, unlike the Volantenes, who lacked their martial ways. They hired sellswords rather than go to war themselves, and were thus soft and unworthy of rule. In Westeros, the peasants knew their place, content to toil under the lords and knights whose swords defended them from chaos and disorder, so long as their dull minds were not clouded by the poison of evil men like the High Dwarf.

Cersei said little, beyond the proper noises of agreement. Instead she watched Tarly's face, considering an idea.

Lord Randyll loathed his overlord and his fellow high lords of the Reach, or so his mistress had told Bel. Tarly did not think himself adequately rewarded for his years of service and his role in winning the Battle of the Blackwater. The juicy plum of Brightwater Keep had gone from the Florents to Garlan Tyrell; the best lands taken from lesser knights who backed Stannis had gone to Lady Oakheart and Lord Hightower; the seats upon the small council had gone to Lord Rowan and Lord Redwyne.

"I had not realized how much we agree on matters of state," the queen said as they climbed the crest of Aegon's Hill. Tommen once more rode at the head of the party, his business at the Great Sept having concluded shortly before the queen returned to fetch him. "Though, of course, I heard much of your valor at the Blackwater. I am told Heartsbane was red from hilt to tip with the blood of traitors."

Tarly was too rigid to smile, but she saw a touch of pride in his eyes. His two-handed Valyrian greatsword was his greatest treasure, save perhaps for his heir.

"Really, my lord," the queen said, lowering her voice. "I wish I might have sent you to the Stormlands, rather than Lord Mace. I fear he will be far too indulgent of these cravens petitioning for redress. A lord should defend his own lands, not go running to his liege like a sniveling child to his septa."

"Your Grace is good to say so," Tarly replied as they passed under the portcullis.

The sight of the high walls of the Red Keep looming over them was a welcome one; the sight of her cousin Willem less so. Rather than dine with the queen as previously arranged, her uncle begged leave to take a quiet supper in the Tower of the Hand, as his digestion was still troubling him.

Cersei could not have asked for a better opportunity.

"Of course, my good uncle must recover his strength," she told Willem. "He has my leave, my love, and my prayers that the Smith shall restore him to good health."

The honor of supping with the queen regent was accepted as quickly as it was offered. When she finished dressing for dinner, the queen found Randyll Tarly already waiting in her solar, accompanied by his son and heir. Rather than doublet or tunic, both wore green surcoats blazoned with the striding huntsman of their house over shirts of fine mail.

Dickon Tarly, a squire of fifteen, was as sharp as his father's sword, despite his moon-shaped face. Like Tommen, the boy inclined to plumpness, or would have, if not for his habit of spending every hour in the training yard. He barely tasted each dish, and shunned the sweet entirely.

The conversation over supper was as promising as that during the ride through the city. Though Tarly was too honorable and tight-lipped a man to openly besmirch his liege lord, each subtle dig at Mace Tyrell was met with approval.

Lord Randyll agreed that Ser Loras was far too callow for the white cloak his father so desperately coveted, an opinion Ser Kevan inexplicably did not share. Her uncle was annoyingly set on filling the spot left vacant by Jaime's absence. In answer, Cersei had reminded him of Viserys the Second, who had reappeared five years after his supposed death, hale and hearty, if sadly accompanied by the vulgar foreigners who had given him shelter in secret.

Lord Randyll also agreed that Willas Tyrell ought to have given up his birthright after being crippled. It was a marvel that the Reach prospered with an absent lord who left the running of his lands to a one-legged weakling. Worse, Willas's refusal to wed suggested he shared his younger brother's fondness for the sort of company which did not produce heirs. Cersei had hoped Mace Tyrell's boasts of peace and plenty were exaggerated. To her annoyance, Varys and his little birds confirmed Tyrell's endless bragging, as did the letters Meria occasionally received from an acolyte at the Citadel. A former lover, no doubt; the girl was always receiving letters from Sunspear, all writ in different hands.

Tarly was far less close-mouthed about his resentment of the Dornish. Poisoners and whoremongers, all of them, more concerned with profit than with holding the line against the traitors to the north. Unlike Mace Tyrell, who regretted swearing to deny the Starks so much as a single bushel of grain, Prince Arianne Martell had made no such promises.

Indeed, most of Dorne's fruit and fish were bound for White Harbor and Eastwatch, and at ruinous prices. Or so said Princess Arianne; the few whisperers Varys had in Dorne said otherwise. Apparently the Martells were buying up fruit and fish for half of what they charged Robb Stark. Either the Martells were cheating him blind, or corrupt officials were lining their own pockets at the merchants' expense. Cersei did not care which; fruit and fish would not be enough to keep bellies full for long.

Neither Ser Kevan's continued ill health nor Mace Tyrell's ravens could sink her good humor over the days that followed her dinner with Lord Randyll. When the anniversary of Robert's death arrived near the end of tenth moon, she could barely conceal her smile long enough to get through the service held in the royal sept. Others might mourn Robert's memory with solemn prayer, but Cersei would have rather held a ball and danced the night away.

Instead, she had to content herself with an evening in her chambers. The court might think her overcome with grief, and propriety might force her to set a modest table, but there was nothing to stop her from raising a cup of Arbor gold to toast her widowhood.

Meria, her only companion, kept the queen's cup well filled. How useful it was, to have a cupbearer who needed only two cups of wine to turn loose-lipped and giggly, leaving the rest of the flagon to the queen's sole enjoyment. The bastard girl laughed at every one of the queen's japes at Lady Margaery's expense, and even made a few of her own.

"If Your Grace said the day was cold, Lady Margaery would throw off her furs and declare she still felt too warm." Meria giggled, far too impressed with her attempt at wit.

"Throw off her furs?" The queen smiled. "The stubborn wench would strip down to her shift, and declare the Long Summer come at last while wading through snowdrifts."

Lady Margaery's staunch avoidance of the queen since their argument in the kingswood was a source of great amusement. She spoke little when in the queen's presence, even when Cersei condescended to offer her the occasional word of advice. When the queen held court with lords and ladies in her solar, Lady Margaery held court with beggars and cripples in the two almshouses she had founded.

Oh, the little bitch still tried to sink her claws into Tommen, but her efforts were almost halfhearted. When the queen informed Lady Margaery that her betrothed was of an ancient line, not that of a line of upjumped stewards desperate to win the favor of the commons, the girl had simply left without a word.

"The silence is so sweet," Cersei sighed, finishing the last sip of Arbor gold and holding it out for more.

To her annoyance, Meria lay slumped on the couch, asleep. Her mouth was slightly open, as if to press a kiss to the golden lions who roared on the crimson cushions.

I should be celebrating with Jaime, Cersei thought, seized by a sudden melancholy. To dull the pain, she fetched the flagon and poured herself another cup of wine.

Aurane might satisfy her for the nonce, but he was nothing, nothing compared to her golden twin. Jaime was not a mere boy desperate for a wet cunt and a chance at glory. He was a part of her very soul, bound to her by blood and seed, utterly faithful to her from the moment he was born clutching her heel. Lord Tywin might have forced Cersei to endure Robert's groping, and her desperation and loneliness in Jaime's absence might have forced her to seek comfort with Lancel and Aurane, but sweet Jaime had never even thought of another woman.

When she closed her eyes, she dreamt of Jaime. His gilded armor shone in the looming darkness as he battled faceless foes, wildfire in his eyes and her name upon his lips. His voice echoed in her ears, so close she could have sworn he stood beside her—

"Cersei? Queen Cersei? Your Grace?"

A gentle hand touched her shoulder; startled, the queen leapt from the chair where she had been dozing. The world swayed and spun as she tried to stand on boneless legs; Cersei only barely kept upright, her hands clutching the back of the chair.

The youth before her was not Jaime. His hair was too brown, straight instead of curly, his eyes a common hazel. Willem.

"What is the matter?" The queen demanded, irate at the intrusion.

"My lady mother bade me bring you." The boy's face was white and frightened. "She woke to give Father a syrup, for his throat, but when it was ready she found him still and cold."

Fear gripped her heart. The valonqar is as dead as the old crone, she reminded herself, swallowing back the bile rising in her throat. He cannot hurt me, my children are safe. Unless... Tyrell. The queen licked her lips, shivering.

Her tongue was as thick as her sleep-addled wits as she gave Willem his orders as to what must be done. Minutes passed like hours as Meria fetched the queen's heavy fur cloak, settling it about Cersei's shoulders with soft words the queen could not comprehend.

An icy rain pounded down from the heavens as the queen made her way from Maegor's Holdfast to the Tower of the Hand, escorted by two Kingsguard and a dozen red cloaks. Cersei's cheeks felt warm as hellfire as she staggered up the steps to her uncle's chambers, one hand gripping Meria's arm lest grief make her clumsy.

Qyburn was already bent over her uncle's bed when she arrived, a sad look upon his kindly face. A sheet covered her uncle's nakedness, leaving only his head and shoulders exposed. Someone had closed her uncle's eyes; his hands were folded over his breast, the palms upraised.

"I am so sorry, Your Grace," Qyburn said once they were alone, save for the guards at the door. "The Lord Hand has gone beyond my aid. If only I had known sooner..."

He frowned, his eyes fixed on her uncle's hands, as though fascinated by the warts and dark lesions that marred the once fair skin. Her uncle had taken to covering them with gloves, blaming the cold, rather than have men see the unsightly gifts of advancing age.

"Your Grace," Qyburn said, his voice strange. "Has Pycelle seen your uncle's hands of late?"

"What?" Was he mad, to insult her uncle to her face? Bad enough that Qyburn could not save him; through the door to the solar she could hear Dorna weeping, as if tears were any use.

"I don't know," the queen snapped, choking back bile as her stomach churned. "My uncle's digestion plagued him, not his hands, and his daughter's death weakened his heart."

Still frowning, Qyburn rolled up his sleeves and bent over the corpse. Thunder roared in the queen's ears as he raised the sheet to reveal a chest covered in dusty brown lesions, the thick legs speckled, the soles of the feet marred by warts and corns.

Gently, so gently, Qyburn draped the sheet over her uncle once more. When he turned to face the queen, the look on his face spoke volumes.

Cersei reeled. She would have fallen, if not for Qyburn grasping her by the elbow. A chair for her shaking legs, a chamber pot for the bile clawing its way from her throat, and the queen could finally think once more.

"Poison," she spat, her voice barely a whisper.

Tasters tried every meal that was meant for her uncle, just as they tasted those meant for the queen and her son. How many hidden thorns lurked in the shadows, unseen until it was too late? Now that Ser Kevan was out of the way, the queen would surely be next. The Tyrells would have Tommen in the palm of their hand, trusting and defenseless. Margaery need only pop out a few bastard babes, and then they might remove Tommen at their leisure, and hang golden roses over their stolen throne.

Never, she thought, fingering the chain of linked hands, the gold cool against her skin. The Tyrells would pay for their betrayal, oh yes. Even now Lord Mace was surely rushing to the city, hoping to claim the seat made vacant by his catspaw. She could not wait to see the look on his face when he arrived to find the seat already filled.

As if in answer to her prayers, there came a hard knock at the door. Seeing Qyburn once more bent over the dead, the queen opened it herself.

Lord Tarly entered the room in a single stride. For a moment the queen looked at him, considering. Tarly's eyes were as hard as his mouth, hard as the hilt of the greatsword poking over his shoulder, hard as the steel rings of the chainmail he wore. This is a man made for slaughter. This is a man made for wrath and ruin.

"I was told Your Grace had need of me," Tarly said, the words ringing like the clash of steel.

In answer, the queen held out her hands.


Oh. Oh no. This is gonna be fun I cannot WAIT to hear what y'all think of this hot mess!

Next up:

136: Sansa V

137: Bran IV

138: Jon VI

NOTES

1) By the 1400s, crude chandeliers did exist, as did candelabras, though the word was not in common usage in English until the 19th century. ASoiaF refers to hanging oil lamps, to torches, and to candles. Crystals and glass were often used to refract light, so as to increase lighting without using more precious oil/beeswax/tallow etc.

2) In canon, Kevan has a LOT of reasons to mistrust Cersei's judgment. Kevan got to see how badly she raised Joffrey, her frantic paranoia about Tyrion during and after his trial, and at some point he learned that she was raping Lancel. As such, he refused to accept the handship unless Cersei also made him regent and returned to Casterly Rock. Here, Joffrey died immediately after Ned's execution, and Tyrion and Lancel both died at the Blackwater. Kevan therefore has a much higher opinion of Cersei.

Further, with Robb's survival putting the north/Three Kingdoms in a much better position, not to mention the rumors about Tommen's paternity being MUCH more widespread, Kevan wasn't willing to try and remove Cersei as queen regent and thereby lend credence to the rumors.

3) Just to be very clear about Cersei's POV trap- Meria is not sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the Red Keep. She's actually not sleeping with anyone.

4) Poor Lysa. When you realize she spent about fifteen years trapped in King's Landing with Cersei... dear god, that's hellish, even without the marriage to an ancient, cold lord who was forced to take her, and who was doubtless not pleased by her failing to give him any heirs besides Sweetrobin. Lysa is implied to have been pregnant almost nonstop for about 10 years.

5) The location of House Penrose's seat, Parchments, is not known. As the Penroses are supposed to be one of the most powerful houses in the Stormlands, I placed it in the northern rainwood, close to Shipbreaker Bay. Having access to timber, fishing, and trade would justify their prominence.

6) Remember how Grey Worm mentioned slow poisons in Dany V? Arsenic does not appear in ASoiaF, but it was very popular in the ancient and medieval eras. A tiny dose given over time mimics a natural illness, and is odorless, tasteless, and lacks color. Kevan's pre-existing stomach problems and age helped disguise the symptoms; Pycelle had no idea.