Early February, 305 AC


"There's still no raven from Cella?" Tommen asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

"Myrcella." She did not like that the boy had grown tall enough to look her in the eye? "No, nothing," the queen said, cold as the drifts of snow that ringed the yard. And there never will be, you foolish, foolish boy.

Hard metal bit into her hand as Cersei gripped the golden brooch which had fastened the king's cloak until she noticed it had been pinned askew. It was worked in the shape of a pair of lions rampant, male and female, with claws as sharp as the pin she thrust home to secure the cloak properly.

The ruby eyes of the lions were the only touch of crimson the king wore. His heavy cloak was black fur trimmed with ermine, his surcoat cloth-of-gold blazoned with a stag as black as his breeches, his crown of golden antlers studded with black diamonds. The queen's crown was far more beautiful, the spun gold set with fiery rubies that matched her gown of crimson damask, the velvet patterned with whorls of gold.

"Your Grace?" Talla Tarly asked, timid as a mouse. The little queen was already ahorse, looking down upon the king and his mother with wide eyes as dark and dull as her stringy hair. "The- the High Septon is expecting us, and the almshouses—"

"His Grace will mount when he wishes, Talla," chided her brother Dickon Tarly. His surcoat was the same green as his sister's gown, blazoned with the scarlet striding huntsman of their house.

"Talla is right," Tommen said. When he pulled away from his mother without so much as a by-your-leave, the queen could have slapped him, if not for the crowd of onlookers.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms could not ride out into the city without a retinue befitting his birth and station. Ser Balon Swann of the Kingsguard, who kept a close eye on Lady Talla; Lady Darlessa Marbrand, scowling at having to go out in the cold to keep an eye on Tommen in his mother's stead; Ser Norwin Banefort, newly knighted and far too proud of himself; Ser Harys Swyft, chinless and bald; pious Lady Alyce Graceford and her septa, always eager to pay their respects at the Great Sept of Baelor.

Then there was the king's escort, twenty redcloaks and half again as many goldcloaks. Much to the queen's annoyance, they were led by Ser George Graceford of the Kingsguard. The queen had been forced to appease Lord Randyll Tarly by granting Ser George the place left vacant by Ser Boros Blount. A cousin of both Lady Alyce and Lord Randyll, the queen did not trust the man as far as she could throw him.

The queen would have preferred Ser Addam Marbrand. Alas, even the doughty knights of the Kingsguard had to sleep, eat, and train; he would not guard Tommen until later in the day. Although... Cersei's lips thinned as she watched her son mount his palfrey.

Ser Addam was proving troublesome of late. It was not enough that Ser Addam and Ser Lyn Corbray were always at odds, eager to usurp Jaime's place by acting as lord commander in his absence. It was not enough that Ser Addam oft trounced Ser Lyn in the yard, depriving the queen of the handsome face and sharp wit of her preferred Kingsguard when the bruised Ser Lyn sulked through his duties. No, a fortnight past, Ser Addam had dared to insist upon a private audience with the queen, and used it to demand she have Ser Lyn gelded.

"King Tommen cannot afford to suffer another Lucamore the Lusty upon his Kingsguard," Ser Addam had declared. "No true knight would act as Ser Lyn does; he disgraces his white cloak every time he—"

"Enters a brothel?" Cersei had interrupted. "Men have used whores to slake their lusts since the dawn of days."

Ser Addam glowered. "The sort of whores he favors—"

"Better boy whores than married women," Cersei said sweetly. "Adultery is such a foul accusation, is it not, ser?"

Oh, how she had enjoyed the sight of Ser Addam staring at her, speechless, his red face clashing with his copper hair. Moon tea might prevent bastards, but it did not prevent Qyburn from hearing whispers, and Ser Addam was not nearly so discreet as he ought to have been in his dalliances with sundry ladies of the court.

There were no such rumors about Ser Balon Swann. Although he had finally recovered from his wounds, it was all he could do to fulfill his duties. As such, the queen had set him to guarding Talla Tarly; she would not entrust Tommen to a knight whose diminished abilities might endanger him. Besides, Ser Balon was worth far more living than dead. His father, Lord Swann, was a powerful marcher lord; she could not risk his loyalty wavering.

And if it did... Castamere had once taught the realm to fear Lord Tywin. If need be, Stonehelm might teach the realm to fear Queen Cersei. A Lannister always paid his debts. Lords who kept their oaths would find themselves rewarded with high offices and fertile fiefs, but betrayal could only be repaid with blood and death. Though Stonehelm would have to wait; there were other traitors to be dealt with first.

Rage simmered beneath her breast as Cersei watched the king and his escort ride out through the gates of the Red Keep, and tried not to think of golden crowns and golden shrouds. The turncloak Ser Daemon Sand would die screaming, oh yes, as would the craven Ser Arys Oakheart for failing to hold Dragonstone against the Targaryen pretender. Whatever fate had befallen Myrcella, her blood was on their hands, not just upon those of whoever killed her...

"Your Grace?" Ser Lyle Crakehall boomed. His snowy cloak snapped at his broad shoulders; his beard bristled as he looked down on the queen. "The small council awaits."

Let them wait, Cersei thought.

"Lead on, ser," she said, accepting the knight's arm.

Ser Lyn Corbray might be faster and comelier, but Ser Lyle was a worthy addition to the Kingsguard. Most called him Strongboar, for he was as big and brawny as the boar which was his sigil. A bit of an oaf, but clever men were often more trouble than they were worth. Besides, the Crakehalls were westermen, loyal to the bone.

Lord Randyll Tarly, on the other hand... another traitor. He would have made himself Lord Regent already, if not for how openly Tommen despised him since that sorry business with Ser Bonifer Hasty. Tommen wanted to remove him as Lord Hand, until the queen regent overruled him. They could not afford to lose a commander of Lord Tarly's repute, nor his armies, not until after they dealt with the pretender intent on stealing Tommen's crown.

Even now, Lord Tarly marched upon Duskendale, with a mighty host at his back. Traitor or no, Lord Randyll was the only man who ever beat Robert Baratheon in battle. He would vanquish the pretender Aegon Targaryen, dragon or no. He could hardly fail her as badly as Lord Philip Foote, whose defeat in the Ruins of Summerhall had ended with Lord Morgan Dondarrion sending the queen his head, along with a letter which simply read For Beric, whatever that meant. Still, it galled the queen to allow Tarly to command not only the bannermen of the Reach, but those she had called from the Stormlands and Crownlands.

Alas, she had no other choice. Lord Tywin could not lead armies to war unless he rose from the grave. Many of his most experienced commanders had died during the War of the Five Kings, as had far too many westermen. Betwixt Lord Tybolt Crakehall, Lord Maynard Serrett, and Ser Harys Swyft, and all their bannermen, she had perhaps seven thousand men to keep Tommen safe.

And keeping Tommen safe was no easy task. After the foolish boy nearly got himself killed by the mob, Cersei had no choice but to give his whipping boy to Qyburn. When Pate returned without a tongue or fingers, Tommen wept until he vomited. The queen had comforted him in her arms, and wiped his tears away. Then, to her surprise, Tommen began talking of vengeance against the lord confessor for hurting Pate.

"Lord Qyburn is sworn to obey the Hand of the King, who bade him punish Pate for your misbehavior," Cersei said, taken aback by the fury on her son's round face. "I shall speak to Lord Tarly; even he cannot defy the Queen Regent."

Tommen was almost as furious several moons later when he learned Robb Stark had kidnapped Margaery Tyrell, not killed her as they had thought. Nevermind that Tommen had already wed Talla Tarly; he wished to send gallant knights to rescue Lady Margaery from the direwolf's jaws. Cersei had nodded and smoothed her son's tangled curls, and that evening she had bade Qyburn send catspaws north to make sure the little bitch's second death proved more permanent than her first.

Snow crunched beneath the queen's pattens as they drew closer to the small council chambers. Today there would be no Randyll Tarly to talk over her, no Tommen to chime in with silly questions and impudent suggestions. As if the Wall was any of their concern! Cersei doubted the cursed thing was even cracked, and if it was, that was all to the good. Let the northmen waste their hosts defending it; when spring came, their lands would be ripe as a peach for the plucking.

"Daeron the Good was always generous to the Night's Watch," Tommen had argued just last week, barely flinching when his mother kicked him under the table. "And Baelor the Blessed said the Others were demons, and The Seven-Pointed Star says everyone who follows the Faith has to fight demons. Maybe we could parley with this pretender Aegon—" he faltered at the look on her face.

"There will be no parley," Cersei had snarled, wishing she could have Pate's tongue removed a second time.

Thus cowed, Tommen had not said another word for the rest of the meeting, not until everyone had left. Then he had begged leave to visit the Great Sept of Baelor and pray for Lord Tarly's victory with the High Septon. Cersei had chosen today, the seventh day of second moon, in hopes that the Seven would better hear their prayers. The queen hoped His High Holiness kept them praying a good long while; the less time they spent visiting almshouses afterward, the better.

When Cersei strode into the small council chamber, all the councillors rose to their feet. Lord Maynard Serrett of Silverhill, her master of coin, his hair as silver as the peacock brooch upon his breast; Lord Casper Wylde of Rain House, her master of ships, his doublet blazoned with a blue-green maelstrom; Lord Tybolt Crakehall of Crakehall, her master of laws, slightly smarter and shorter than his younger brother Strongboar.

Only after the queen seated herself at the head of the table did she notice the empty chairs. The chair for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was empty, as it ought to be; no one could take her Jaime's place. Nor was she surprised to see the High Septon's empty seat; Luceon Frey barely left his sept since the mob almost killed him. It was the other empty chairs that troubled her, three of them where there should be none.

"Where is Lord Hallyne?" Her voice cracked like a whip; Lord Casper almost spilled the Arbor gold he was pouring into her cup. "Where are the Grand Maester and the Lord Confessor?"

"Your Grace?" Lord Tybolt blinked at her, one hand tugging at the brown whiskers of his beard. "I thought—"

"Good morrow, Your Grace!" called Grand Maester Gerold, sweeping into the room with a smile as bright as his golden curls. "A thousand pardons, I was making some adjustments to my star charts and quite lost track of time."

"Perhaps Lord Qyburn might help you remember the time better," Cersei snapped.

Grand Maester Gerold paled.

"N-no need for that, Your Grace," he stammered, as if he was a boy, not a man ten years her elder. What was his fool mother thinking, to name a Lannister of Lannisport after Lord Tywin's own grandsire? "It will not happen again, I swear by the old gods and the new."

Gerold fidgeted with his chain. There were a few links of silver and gold, iron and black iron, copper and pewter, but the vast majority were bronze, for the study of the stars. Gerold cared for little else; he lived for the queer instruments that littered his chambers. An astrolabe, a quadrant, several Myrish lens tubes of varying sizes, including a massive one which sat upon a tripod, a peculiar bronze sphere covered in concentric rings, each of which could be moved.

It was enough to make her miss Grand Maester Pycelle, damn him. Soon after the new year, the old fool had upset some of the ravens in the rookery. When the birds attacked, Pycelle had fallen, broken his hip, and died before his frantic assistants could fetch a maester. That very day, almost all the ravens in the rookery had suddenly abandoned the Red Keep, making it impossible to send messages. Nor were new ravens arriving; the only news came from couriers and from Lord Qyburn's informers.

"Your Grace?" Lord Serrett hesitated. "Lord Hallyne is not coming. Your Grace forbade him to set foot in the Red Keep until the Alchemists' Guild made amends for their failure."

"Is that so, my lord?" It sounded like something the queen might have said; council meetings often blurred together.

"So you did, Your Grace," Lord Crakehall agreed as she sipped her wine. "You told him you wanted jars of wildfire, not excuses."

"I recall now." The queen drained her cup, the sweet taste of wine soothing her fury.

All the gold she had lavished upon the Alchemists' Guild, and yet, in her hour of need, they suddenly found themselves unable to make more of their beloved substance. Hallyne had a thousand excuses. The ingredients were rare and costly, and could not be replaced as quickly as they were being used. No, the recipe could not be altered, nor ingredients substituted.

Nor did they have adequate reserves of wildfire already made. Lord Tyrion had used almost all they had when he burned Stannis Baratheon's ships upon the Blackwater. All the wildfire the pyromancers had made since then had been used to entertain the court, to burn the corpses of those who died of bloody flux, to supply the dromonds that failed to defend Dragonstone, and to supply Lord Tarly when he left for Duskendale.

"Bring out the maps."

Lord Wylde had left the flagon by the queen; she refilled her cup herself as Gerold hurried to obey. A pitiful excuse for a Grand Maester, though at least he was a Lannister. That alone made him preferable to whoever the Citadel would try to foist on her once they were no longer preoccupied.

Lord Qyburn would have been the better choice. He was a skilled healer and a wise councillor, blessed with all the experience of old age, yet all the vigor of youth. But the Citadel had taken Qyburn's chain; he could not be her grand maester. Besides, all her lords misliked him, no doubt jealous that a common-born man should command such favor with the queen.

Whilst Gerold laid out the maps, the queen swirled the wine in her cup. When he placed the carved wooden pieces upon them, she drank it down. The rose piece drew ever closer to King's Landing, moving east along the rose road followed by a host of smaller pieces. For a moment she imagined chopping down the rowan and ripping the wings off the crane, squeezing the grapes in her fist until they burst, crushing the bees and ants beneath her feet.

Gerold's words only increased her ire. Garlan Tyrell would arrive in a fortnight, or sooner, but they could not be sure. Their only news came from the few loyal bannermen who had thought to send couriers in case their ravens were lost in the winter winds. As couriers were far slower than ravens, what little news they had was old and stale, almost useless.

When Gerold began placing pieces in the Stormlands, the queen almost spilled the flagon she was pouring. The sun piece and its followers should have been in the Stormlands, not already past Wendwater Bridge and into the kingswood.

"That cannot be right," Lord Crakehall blustered.

Gerold glared. "I assure you, my lord, I took great care with my calculations, taking into account the host's pace thus far."

"But you have forgotten other considerations." Lord Serrett pointed at the map. "House Buckler of Bronzegate, House Fell of Felwood, House Errol of Haystack Hall, House Wendwater of Wendwater Bridge. They would not allow the Red Viper to march up the kingsroad unmolested; all of them are true and loyal to King Tommen."

"And all of them are with Lord Tarly," Gerold said, pointing to the pieces he had placed near Duskendale.

"As they should be," Cersei snapped, her anger blazing. Was Serrett senile or stupid, to forget a matter of such import? "Once Lord Tarly crushes the pretender, the Red Viper will be the next to fall."

The queen rose to her feet. "Lord Tarly's host has more than five times their numbers," she said. Wine sloshed over the rim of her cup as she gestured, golden droplets spattering the parchment. "This pretender is an untried boy, with no support save the Golden Company."

"And a dragon," Gerold muttered, impertinent.

Cersei waved a dismissive hand. "A mob of unwashed smallfolk once killed five full-grown dragons within the Dragonpit itself; Lord Tarly can surely handle a single half-grown dragon."

If there even was a dragon. Lord Tarly had sworn to bring King Tommen the pretender's head, but if all had gone aright, the pretender was already dead long before his host met Lord Tarly's. The queen could almost taste her victory as she imagined a golden veil bursting into green flames that turned a silver-haired shadow to naught but ash.

That made the queen almost feel like herself again, enough to smile when the heavy door swung open and Lord Qyburn stepped through. Her smile faded when she saw the men behind him. The greybeard's white surcoat and its three trees were splattered in mud; the old man swayed with every step, and would have fallen had he not leaned heavily upon a squire dressed in orange.

"Lord Wendwater!" The grand maester rushed to the old man's side, relieving the squire as he helped the man to the nearest chair.

The queen's mouth was dry; she wet it with a gulp of Arbor gold.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Lord Qyburn looked at her, his warm brown eyes solemn.

"Your Grace, on the last day of first moon, Lord Tarly met the pretender and his dragon in battle, Your Grace." Qyburn hesitated. "It grieves me to say that Lord Tarly's assault failed.
He is slain, his host broken."

Dread wrapped its hands about her throat; for a moment she felt as if she might choke on it. It could not have been the pretender, he is dead, he must be dead, they must have found some dragonseed to take his place.

"Get out." Cersei's voice was strangely raspy, her tongue thick and clumsy. "Get out, all of you."

No one moved.

"Get OUT," she shouted.

Gerold was the first to bolt to his feet, but not the last. Lord Serrett and Lord Wylde scurried after the grand maester, struggling to fasten their cloaks as they fled out into the cold. When the door slammed shut behind them, that left only Lord Qyburn, his hands hidden up his sleeves, and Lord Crakehall and the nameless squire, who struggled to help Lord Gerren Wendwater out of his seat.

"Never mind that," the queen told them.

With her own hands she poured a cup of sour Dornish red for Lord Wendwater. He sipped at it slowly, the wine staining his teeth and lips like blood. To be courteous, the queen finished her own cup of Arbor gold, though her hands shook so hard she almost spilled the wine.

"How could this happen?" The queen could feel her cheeks flush red with anger. "Tarly swore he would crush the Golden Company as he once crushed Robert; did he lose his wits, or did the sight of a dragon turn his bowels to water?"

"Neither." Gerren Wendwater dared to look her in the eye, the insolent knave. "The pretender had twice as many men as we expected, traitors from the crownlands who flocked to his banners. Again and again our foot attacked their center, yet the Golden Company held firm. The dragon was behind them, roaring and breathing flame, yet the pretender did not take flight. When Lord Tarly realized it could not fly due to the winds, he led our cavalry against the dragon—"

"The dragon was not even in the air?" Cersei could scarcely believe what she was hearing. "The gods were good enough to keep the dragon on the ground, and Tarly still lost?"

"The horses floundered in the mud," Gerren Wendwater said stubbornly. "By the time the remaining knights reached the dragon—"

"Did the gallant fools forget they had scorpions and wildfire?" The queen demanded.

"The scorpions could not be brought near enough," the squire protested hotly. When the queen raised her hand, the boy flinched. "Your Grace," he said hurriedly, taking a step back before she could slap him.

"Simon is right." Gerren Wendwater's face was a stiff mask. "As for the wildfire, Lord Tarly believed he did not need it, not to defeat so small a force. The stuff was too volatile, too dangerous; he did not wish to use it unless there were no other choice. His caution—"

"His cowardice, you mean," the queen flared. "Is this how you serve King Tommen, with dishonor and disgrace?" She swept the striding huntsman and all the pieces beside it off the map, sending them to the floor with a crash that made the squire jump.

"Your Grace—"

"Lord Tywin would have sent his foes screaming down to the deepest of the seven hells within a hour, do not deny it! Is there no other man in the Seven Kingdoms with even half his mettle? Must I do everything myself?"

"Your Grace can rely on me," Lord Crakehall said stoutly, thumping his chest. "Casterly Rock has never fallen; if the king withdraws—"

"Retreat?" The queen said, aghast. Were her cup not empty, she would have drained it. "Would you have the king abandon the Iron Throne and let the pretender take it without a fight? Lord Tarly may have lost his battle, but the king has not lost his war. The Stormlands are still disputed; it is only a matter of time until the Mertyns and the Wyldes crush these treacherous Penroses and their allies. Once the remnants of Lord Tarly's host regroups, the crownlands are ours for the taking."

Lord Crakehall's brow furrowed. "But Aegon Targaryen- Your Grace, he has a dragon, and if he wins Robb Stark to his cause—"

"He will not."

All of them gaped at her, save for Lord Qyburn, who gave a ponderous nod. Men loved having a scapegoat upon whom to vent their spleen, and she would give them one. The queen could hardly explain why she knew the pretender must already be dead, his death kept quiet so he could be replaced by some proxy.

"Lord Qyburn has at last unraveled the truth of Varys's plotting," the queen said. "There were secret papers hidden in the eunuch's old chambers, all of them written in cipher. My lords, even I could hardly believe the depths of the eunuch's betrayal. For nigh on twenty years he plotted the downfall of House Baratheon, desperate to place his puppet upon the Iron Throne."

She drew a ragged breath, calling tears to her eyes.

"Jon Arryn suspected something was amiss, but King Robert would not heed him. My lord husband was always too generous, too trusting; he told Varys of Jon Arryn's suspicions as if it were a jape, and within a fortnight, Lord Arryn was dead. Of old age, we thought, but Lord Varys poisoned him, just as he poisoned Eddard Stark into betraying Robert as soon as his body was cold."

Grief slurred her tongue, lending credence to her words.

"For the love my husband bore him, I would have allowed Lord Eddard to take the black. It was Lord Varys who conspired to have him killed, who had Joffrey killed and the Stark girl spirited away. It was Lord Varys who plotted the Red Wedding, who betrayed my father Tywin and my brother Jaime, slaying the one and abducting the other. It was Lord Varys who sowed dissent among the Faith, who hired sellswords dressed like northmen to drive a wedge betwixt Lannister and Tyrell. If we had only discovered the eunuch's treason sooner..." She shook her head.

"The eunuch made fools of us all," Lord Crakehall rumbled, giving her a handkerchief. "I never trusted the man."

"Eunuchs aren't men," the squire said.

"Too true," Lord Wendwater agreed, his mouth twisted. "And he was a Lyseni, raised on plots and poisons."

"My lord is right," the queen said, giving him a sad smile as she dabbed at her eyes. "The men of the Free Cities cannot be trusted to follow the laws of gods and men. Guest right, kinslaying, incest, these crimes come to them as easily as breathing."

"And this pretender Aegon Targaryen was raised in the Free Cities," Lord Qyburn said, shaking his head sadly.

Lord Qyburn wove a chilling tale. His informers had discovered the pretender was a whore's bastard born in Lys, a boy whose fair face concealed a rotten heart. In place of the Seven, he worshipped R'hllor, the fire demon whose priests corrupted Lord Stannis to their cause. In place of war and history, he learned blood magic and black sorcery, the same dark powers which he had used to steal a dragon. When that brave knight Ser Olyvar Sand happened to cross his path, the pretender welcomed him like a brother and slew him that very night, taking poor mad Sansa Stark as a prize so that he might use her to slake his unspeakable lusts.

"So you see, my lords?" the queen said. "Robb Stark has every reason to despise the pretender as much as we do, now that the truth has at last come to light. Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn would not be dead if not for the eunuch's scheming, nor would his sister have fallen into the hands of a vicious brute."

"No- none of the northmen will believe such a tale," Lord Wendwater said dubiously. "Stark loves us not."

"All men will believe it," Lord Qyburn assured him.

"But..." Lord Crakehall scratched at his beard, as if that would improve his thick wits. "Princess Elia of Dorne swears the boy is truly Aegon. She sent ravens out across the realm swearing that her children did not die in the sack, that they were sent away and a pair of lowborn children died in their stead."

"The words of a feeble cripple, a mother deranged by her grief." The queen shook her head, the room spinning slightly. "She wishes to believe she saved her children, so she lies to herself as well as the realm."

"No doubt," said Lord Wendwater, his voice troubled. "But this pretender has Dorne, and half of the Stormlands, and most of the great houses of the Reach. Lord Willas Tyrell claims to have taken the Princess Rhaenys to wife—"

"Another pretender!" the queen said impatiently, throwing up her hands. "A Dornish slattern, a student of the red priestess who stole Stannis's soul."

Lord Crakehall and Lord Wendwater stared at her, confused. Must she explain everything? Annoyed, she went to refill her cup, only to find that the flagon had gone dry.

"No common slut could convincingly play a princess," the queen told them, "no more than a princess could be mistaken for a girl of common birth. Clearly the girl used sorcery to ensnare poor Lord Willas. But she is of no consequence; only the pretender matters. We must slay this Targaryen before he can lead more good men astray."

Lord Crakehall gaped at her. "Your Grace? He has a dragon."

"No man can ride a dragon all the time," Lord Qyburn pointed out. "Knives and poison work the same on dragonriders as they do on other men. A king must be seen in public, and once he is out in the open..."

"I suppose," Lord Crakehall said, slowly.
"If Aegon Targaryen is dead, his allies will scatter to the four winds; they would not follow a woman in his place."

"Exactly," the queen declared. Nevermind that the pretender was already dead; whoever this second pretender was, he would soon join him in hell. "Now, I must needs speak to Lord Qyburn privily. Lord Crakehall, if you would see that chambers are prepared for Lord Wendwater and—" she could not recall the boy's name "—and his squire. Summon the grand maester to attend him, and inform the rest of my council that we shall meet again on the morrow to discuss how this false dragon may be slain."

Lord Qyburn had little to report. His informers were quiet of late, no doubt due to the difficulty of traveling in the cold and snow required by the loss of their ravens. They had heard nothing of Dragonstone, nor Princess Myrcella, but he hoped to receive word soon.

"A thousand pardons, Your Grace," Qyburn said solemnly. "However, if it is any comfort, my work in the black cells continues to bear fruit. I have learned much from the traitors Your Grace was so generous to entrust to my care." Qyburn allowed himself a little smile, as though quite pleased with himself. "They shall do no more treason, I do avow."

The queen did not doubt that. With all that he had learned from Gyles Rosby, Lord Qyburn was certain he could save the life of any man, so long as he still drew breath. Or even if he did not, though she did not like to think of that. But when it came to the queen's enemies... no, best not to think of that either. What went on in the black cells was none of her concern, only the results of Qyburn's labors.

"I hope the High Septon's scars will soon cease to trouble Your Grace," Qyburn promised, as affable as a grandfather bestowing a sweet upon a favorite grandchild. "I believe I have sufficient teeth, though implanting them has proven more difficult than I anticipated."

The queen frowned, wishing she had more wine. It was Qyburn who had saved the man's life after the mob nearly beat him to death. Luceon Frey had lost an eye and all of his teeth. Much as she missed his flattery, she could not say she missed the sight of his ruined face.

"You already made His High Holiness a set of false teeth," she reminded the lord confessor. "And a false eye." Though the High Septon refused to wear the eye made of gold and enamel, claiming it was too crude and painful.

"Your Grace is right, as always." Lord Qyburn brushed at his long white robes, one finger tracing a whorl of gold upon his sleeve. "Yet what man would not prefer to have a set of his own teeth, rather than ones set in wax? Glass eyes are well enough, but imagine how wondrous it would be if a blind man could see again."

The queen's belly lurched. "A wonder," she said through dry lips. "Just take care that your work remains discreet. There are already too many queer rumors in the city."

"Of course, Your Grace." Lord Qyburn bowed deeply.

As the bells tolled noon, Strongboar escorted the queen across the cold yard to the royal sept. The ground was icy; more than once she might have fallen, if not for the knight's thick arm keeping her upright.

"All the ladies of the court pray for Princess Myrcella too," Strongboar said as they drew near the sept. "Have courage, Your Grace."

"Do not presume to speak to me of courage, ser."

The queen wrenched away from him, throwing open the heavy door herself. Cersei hoped he froze as he stood guard outside the door. She would not invite Strongboar to stand guard within, not after such impertinence.

The royal sept was warm, fragrant with the sweet scent of incense. A beautiful place, in truth, the altar and its ornaments of gold, the walls and floors of pure white marble. A small red-brown stain marred the center aisle, marking the spot where Ser Lyn Corbray had slain Varys. Qyburn had used his arts to preserve the head for her before they displayed it upon a spike, the eunuch's face forever locked in a look of exquisite agony. The carrion crows would not touch the thing; when they took the head down, she would have to have it put in a jar.

But she was not here to savor old victories.

The queen's stomach growled as she knelt before the altar, upon the plush velvet cushion placed there for her use. She should have had a servant fetch her a meal, but there was no time, not if she was to pray at the Hour of the Mother. Cersei had done so every day since she realized her sweet daughter would never return to King's Landing.

Damn the ice that had closed Blackwater Bay, and damn the cowardly captain who turned back for Dragonstone rather than risk his ship. Drowning would be a kindness compared to the suffering Myrcella would endure if she fell into the pretender's clutches. No doubt the pretender was as cruel as the grandsire he claimed, and King Aerys had never lacked for cruelty. After the Defiance of Duskendale, he had condemned Serala of Myr along with her husband Lord Darklyn, blaming her for leading him astray. They said Lady Serala had been locked in the barracks with the king's soldiers for seven days and seven nights before she was given over to the torturers who had torn out her tongue and womanly parts before burning her alive.

Cersei could not risk such a fate for her child, her precious princess. She had been frantic with worry until Qyburn swore he had a way to prevent it, to protect Myrcella and to slay this pretender into the bargain. Desperate times called for desperate measures; she would pay any price to keep Tommen on his throne.

And oh, Mother save her, what a steep price she had paid. Poor, sweet Myrcella. At least she had died without pain; she made certain of that, even though it meant sparing the pretender the agony he so richly deserved. The pretender must be dead, he must be.

Yet as septas filed in, singing hymns to the Mother, doubt began to gnaw at her. How could there not be a single whisper of the pretender's death since Dragonstone fell almost a month past? How could they find a dragonseed so quickly, let alone one that could claim the pretender's dragon? On and on the septas sang, their voices like knives in the queen's ears. When the bells tolled one, she could stand it no longer, and fled back to her chambers.

By the time the queen finished picking at her meal, her stomach was a hard knot. To calm it, Cersei sent for a flagon of golden wine from the Jade Sea, the same prized vintage she had so enjoyed the night of the masked ball. Not as sweet as Arbor gold, but even smoother, smooth enough to help her think.

Something must have gone awry. Perhaps Qyburn and Hallyne's spells had failed; perhaps the veil had been taken before Myrcella could use it; perhaps the raven had plummeted into the sea along with the slim oilcloth bundle it carried. Whatever had happened, the pretender must have survived, damn him. As for Myrcella...

Cersei shuddered, then drank deep. She should have ordered Ser Arys Oakheart to spirit Myrcella away, to burn Dragonstone to the ground behind them using all the wildfire her dromonds carried. She should have had Ser Arys slice Ser Daemon Sand open from throat to cock, him and every cursed Dornishman on the isle. All Dornishmen were snakes, vipers waiting to turn on their betters, but the queen knew how to deal with them, oh, yes.

A sudden impulse seized the queen. She shouted for her ermine cloak, for her fur-lined gloves and the warm boots that matched them. A maid helped her into them; she had sent Jocelyn Swyft away, unable to stand her insipidness any longer. Perhaps she should ask Lady Taena Merryweather to take her place; the Myrish woman was amusing, if not as witty as the bastard girl Meria Sand. It was a pity the girl's father had not shared her honesty and loyalty.

The wind tugged at her cloak as Ser Lyn Corbray escorted her across the yard. Luckily the steps to the battlements were inside the gatehouse, untouched by the ice and snow. Up the queen climbed, relishing every step that brought her closer to the sight which awaited her on the ramparts.

The air was even colder atop the high battlements. Ser Lyn knew her well; the moment they reached the summit, he sent a redcloak running for hot mulled wine. The remaining redcloaks he directed to stand where they would form a windbreak; it would not do for the queen to catch a chill. The sound of their wool cloaks flapping in the wind was irritating, but that could not be helped, nor could the faint sound of chattering teeth.

Unlike her guards, the heads spiked above the walls of the Red Keep were quiet. A pity; she would have liked to hear the Dornishmen's screams. They had barely begun to enjoy Lord Qyburn's hospitality when Ser Addam Marbrand presumed to steal them from the black cells at Tommen's behest. The queen was enjoying a cup of wine and a long bath; by the time she dressed and made her way to the quickly filling throne room with Ser Balon Swann, it was too late.

King Tommen sat the Iron Throne, his crown glimmering almost as brightly as his tears. In a faltering, cracking voice he demanded an explanation for why the Dornishmen had sought to steal from the city under the cover of darkness, why they had slain near a dozen goldcloaks who sought to stop them in the name of their king.

"You are no king of mine," declared Ser Arron Qorgyle, blood and spittle spraying from between the gaps left by his missing teeth.

"Nor mine!" shouted Lord Harmen Uller, defiant.

Tommen looked at the prisoners queasily, as if he wished to vomit but dared not. Lord Harmen swayed heavily upon his feet, blood seeping heavily through the bandages that marked where the goldcloaks had wounded Lord Harmen, just as they had wounded his brother Ser Ulwyck, who lay upon a stretcher. Ser Myles Manwoody had already died of his wounds, as had his brother old Lord Dagos Manwoody, whose heart had burst when Qyburn's men began to tie him to the rack.

Ser Aron Santagar had fared better. He had survived Qyburn taking his eyes, though he clung to his wife as a drowning man clings to a rope. Cedra Santagar's face was purple with bruises, her eyes red with weeping. Lady Larra Blackmont stood beside the Santagars, her gown torn, her face drawn with pain, then suddenly twisted in anger.

"Aegon is the true king," Larra Blackmont shouted over the jeering crowd.

"Be silent," bellowed Dickon Tarly, who stood at the foot of the throne. "Tommen Baratheon is the true king!"

"Never!" threw back Cedra Santagar, struggling to support her husband's weight. "And even if he were, we all know who rules, and it is not the sweet boy who dances like a puppet upon his mother's strings!"

"Ser Balon," cried the queen, out of patience with this folly. "Drag these traitors back to the black cells, let them be questioned sharply before they lose their tongues for these lies!"

"Let them speak!"

Tommen's words echoed over the hall, the king's high voice suddenly deep and clear as a bell. Dickon Tarly frowned; Ser Balon halted in his tracks; the goldcloaks who had already grabbed hold of Lord Harmen Uller and Ser Aron Santagar let them go. Lord Harmen kept his feet, but Ser Aron slid to the ground in a dead faint before his wife could catch him.

"Prince Oberyn isn't marching to defend King's Landing, is he?" Tommen's face was crumpled, but the tears were gone. "I thought I could trust him. I thought... I thought you were my leal lords and ladies." His voice quavered. "Why? What have I done, that you would repay your king with betrayal?"

"Oh, child." Larra Blackmont stared up at the king, her face strange. "It has naught to do with you."

"I am the king," Tommen insisted. "It has everything to do with me."

"No." Lord Harmen Uller's dark eyes blazed with hate. "Aegon is the true king, the son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia of Dorne. The crown was his the moment Aerys fell; that was why Robert Baratheon thought to steal his throne over the corpses of slaughtered children."

"King Robert didn't kill children!" Up on the throne, Tommen's face was turning red; down on the floor, Cedra Santagar bent over her husband, who lay still. "That was the work of false knights, my father said so!"

"Robert was not your father!" Cedra's voice was a piercing shriek as she dropped her husband's limp arm and stood, her eyes wild. "Have you no eyes to look in the mirror, no ears to hear the truth? Your mother is a murderess and an adulteress, who fucked her own brother and placed his bastards on the throne!"

"ENOUGH!" Tommen screamed.

The goldcloaks surrounding the prisoners leveled their spears. Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Balon Swann moved as one, descending from the dais. Dickon Tarly followed, drawing his sword and placing the point just below Cedra Santagar's chin.

"Back to the black cells with them!" The queen cried, fury thrumming in her veins. This time she would watch the lord confessor at his work, oh yes. "Let Lord Qyburn—"

"NO," the king said, sounding almost panicked as he cut her off. Dickon Tarly lowered his sword; every eye looked to the king. "Let Ser Ilyn Payne show them the king's justice. Take them to the block, your king commands it."

That had been a fortnight ago, yet the row of heads looked remarkably fresh as Cersei eyed them, savoring a sip of her mulled wine. Ser Ilyn had beheaded each of them with a single stroke; her son was far too merciful, too soft. The queen would have had the Dornish questioned for all they knew of the pretender's plans. Then, when they ceased to be of use, she would have had them flayed and torn for daring to besmirch her name.

As it was, the queen had to be satisfied with having Qyburn cut out all their tongues when he prepared the heads for display. Their mouths still gaped red, though the blood had long since dried. Thank the gods Tommen had believed none of their slander. Nor had the rest of the court, who had heard such rumors before and dismissed them. It was well that Cersei had the foresight to dispose of Robert's flock of black-haired bastards before anyone could use them against her son. If only every threat could be so easily removed.

Turning away from the heads, the queen looked down, down at the city which sprawled beneath the Red Keep. Black smoke rose from thousands of chimneys; silvery grey icicles hung from roofs covered in white snow. Ants struggled to traverse streets thick with slush and mud; the lord mayor and his patricians seemed utterly incapable of keeping even the largest streets clear.

The queen almost suspected their incompetence was deliberate, though Lord Tarly claimed none of Mace Tyrell's cronies remained in the city. He had seen to it, having arrested them as soon as he finished dealing with Bonifer Hasty and his mob of malcontents. A little time with Lord Qyburn and the traitors had sung like birds, admitting to conspiring to let the mob into the city so they might murder King Tommen.

Even so, the patricians and guilds continued to roil with unrest, resisting every edict the lord mayor issued. The smallfolk were even worse, the festering rabble, ever since word came of Lady Margaery's survival and her many slanders against the queen. The last time Cersei rode through the city, Ser Jacelyn Bywater and his goldcloaks had barely kept order long enough for the queen to ride back to the Red Keep, and she had not stirred beyond it since. Not that she cared a whit for the mob's opinion. They had hated Lord Tywin too; it was the way of the world for sheep to fear the lion.

Well, this lioness would not be chased out of the city. Not like Rhaenyra Targaryen, who had skulked away in the dead of night, fleeing to the ancient seat of her house. More fool she; that was where her brother, Aegon the Elder, had slain her, even though the gods despised kinslayers. Not that that had stopped the Targaryens. Such fools the Targaryens were, to squander their dragons quarreling amongst themselves.

Cersei drank deep, letting the spices warm her as she finished off the mulled wine. Rhaegar Targaryen had squandered his strength the day he condescended to wed Elia of Dorne. She could only hope the pretender Aegon Targaryen was as weak and sickly as if he were truly the cripple's son.

The queen did not believe for a moment the preposterous story woven in the letter from Princess Elia which a courier had brought from Hayford. Lord Tywin did not make mistakes; Aegon Targaryen and his sister Rhaenys were dead. If by some miracle Rhaegar's children had survived, the Martells would have sooner sent the babes to the Wall than to be raised by strangers in the savage lands across the narrow sea.

Granted, she had briefly considered the absurd notion that the Martells had raised the children in their midst. Olyvar Sand was the right age, his eyes a rich true purple... then she had laughed at her own foolishness. There was no sign of Rhaegar's beauty in his face, nor in his dark hair and golden skin. Besides, the Dornish would never have dared parade Rhaegar's son before Lord Tywin, whose keen eyes could pierce men down to their very souls, whose mind was sharper than Valyrian steel.

Of course, the commons did not share even a pinch of wits between them. The mob were eager to believe the pretender and support his claim, drunk on their hatred of their rightful queen. Ragged street preachers declared him blessed by the gods; singers sang of Aegon the Unlikely and the years of prosperity he had given the realm; puppeteers put on Strongspear the Squire, that wretched show about the treacherous little bitch who had made a mockery of justice before escaping the queen's clutches.

It did not seem to matter that the black cells were packed full of traitors. For every man the goldcloaks seized, three more slipped through their fingers. And there were fewer goldcloaks than she would like; they kept freezing to death during the long watches of the night, or getting maimed or killed by rabble who attacked them as they sought to arrest traitors to the crown.

Worse, on the last day of the old year, there had been a riot that somehow resulted in an inn and a stable bursting into flame, though how the mob got their hands on wildfire no one could say. The goldcloaks and their water wagons had barely contained the blaze by drenching the nearby buildings, letting those that had already caught fire burn to the ground. More than a dozen goldcloaks had perished from the flames or choked to death on smoke, and the number of recruits dwindled even further.

"A warm pallet and a full belly only goes so far, Your Grace," Bel had presumed to tell her yesterday, when the queen summoned the whore from the Street of Silk. "But I am sure men would flock to serve King Tommen, if the wages were not so low."

"When I require the advice of a whore, I shall ask for it," Cersei had told her, already displeased with the pitiful, useless whispers the Dornishwoman had brought from her brothel.

At least she could be sure the woman was not a traitor, thanks to Lord Qyburn. After the betrayal of the Dornish lords, Cersei trusted nothing from Dorne. As such, she had directed Qyburn to sharply question one of Bel's prettier whores. When the girl proved to know nothing, the queen had graciously returned her, albeit without any teeth.

Quick to take a hint, Bel had apologized for any offense and begged the queen's forgiveness on bended knee. When the queen demanded two more girls for the lord confessor's personal use, as a reward for his good service, Bel agreed without protest, although she did ask that the lord confessor return them in one piece when he tired of them. Thus far, Qyburn seemed very pleased with the whores hidden in his chambers; better yet, he chattered less at the queen about all the good work he did in King Tommen's name.

As Lord Qyburn's informers were not bringing much news, the queen had set them to spreading rumors instead. Euron Greyjoy's attack on Oldtown was a punishment from the gods, whose wrath had been aroused by vile treachery. Had not the Seven struck down the pretender Torbert, who had led the people away from the true faith? Had the Seven not struck down Lord Hightower, who dared sacrifice men and women loyal to King Tommen in hopes of using their innocent blood to claim Greyjoy's dragon for himself? That was how Aegon Targaryen had claimed his dragon, by slaying the valiant Ser Olyvar Sand and raping his weeping widow over her husband's corpse, and now the madman was coming to burn their city to the ground!

Nonsense, all of it, lurid stories of the sort wet nurses and old men liked to tell by the fire. The mob should have lapped it up like honey, yet they stubbornly refused to believe a word of it, even after Lord Qyburn had his men leave some of his dead traitors scattered around the city, with arcane runes and symbols drawn around them in their own blood. It did not seem to matter that the goldcloaks had arrested the purported bloodmages, who had been publicly tried and executed after confessing their crimes; the commons blamed Qyburn, yowling like cats about his unholy reign over the black cells.

Let them yowl, the queen thought. They could not touch her here, though truth be told the Red Keep was nothing to the might of Casterly Rock. There was no greater fortress in the realm, and it was hers, the proud legacy she had inherited from Lord Tywin.

A sudden pang of longing seized the queen. How long had it been since Cersei had seen the Rock? Could it really be ten years since Lord Tywin's tourney? She had given Robert no peace until he agreed to go, and then they remained for almost a year.

Cersei had been content to remain in the same palatial apartments where she had grown up, their gilded depths full of hidden corners where she and Jaime could fuck. The children were often busy with their lessons, and Robert spent his time roaming all over the Rock. He climbed up to take in the view from atop the ringfort; rode his horse through the long passages; took a winch cage down to the deep caverns that lay in the bowels of the Rock beside the port where ships arrived from the Sunset Sea.

She hoped Robert had choked on the stench. The docks and wharves always stank, thanks to the drains which carried the Rock's sewage away lest it taint the deep wells which drew water from below the earth. Nothing lived down there, now that the last of the caged lions had died. Oh, there were plenty of abandoned mining shafts, to be sure, and cells which housed the worst of the prisoners. Her castellan Ser Willem Lannister had been most concerned about those cells, some complaints about sewage which she had ignored. His ravens about Lord Mordryd Lydden, on the other hand...

The queen clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. Would that she had Lord Lydden's head on a spike. Pycelle had trembled when he brought her the raven back in ninth moon, as if even he could not believe the depths of treason to which men would stoop. Vengeance for Castamere, the man had claimed, as if she were to blame for her father's deeds, as if the Reynes had not deserved their deaths.

The dead of Castamere shall not rest in their graves until Lord Tywin's line is cast down, the traitor had declared. Let the Bitch Queen and Bastard King take heed! The debt is long past due, and by the will of the gods, I come to collect what is owed.

Lord Lydden would find it difficult to make good on his threats. It did not matter how many treacherous nobles flocked to his banner; they would soon abandon him when they had their fill of the rebellious peasants he had whipped into a frenzy. Let them come, let them do their worst. Even Lann the Clever, bold as he was, had known he must resort to trickery, not brute force.

Lann had entered the Rock by a secret way, long since lost. Some said it was near the Lion's Mouth, others said it was by the sea, but all agreed that Casterly Rock had never fallen since; it could not fall, so long as there remained one Lannister willing to defend it. Ser Willem and his twin brother Ser Martyn might be poor excuses for Lannisters, but their father Kevan was Lord Tywin's own brother, and Tywin had trusted him as she could never trust Tyrion. Last night she had dreamt of him again, waiting in the dark beneath the Rock, a faceless monster who leapt from the shadows to strangle her.

Cersei shuddered. She stared at the spiked heads, but they brought her no solace. The queen had stood in the cold too long; her right arm ached, just as it had when the Imp had broken it. It had hurt far worse when the break was fresh. Pycelle had fretted and tsked over her as he splinted it, and given her plenty of milk of the poppy for her broken arm. The queen had drunk none of it, preferring to suffer sharp pain rather than dull wits; she feared for her life whilst the Imp still drew breath.

The valonqar is dead, he cannot hurt me, she reminded herself.

No thanks to Ser Mandon Moore, who had drowned himself better than he had drowned Tyrion. How that stammering squire had managed to save him Cersei did not know, nor did she care. All she knew was that Tyrion must not wake to make good on his threat to tell Lord Tywin the truth of what lay between her and Jaime. The squire would not leave the Imp's side, so the queen had smiled, and soothed him, and lulled him to sleep in her arms, and found the stoppered flask hidden in her pockets. And in the morning, the squire had awoken, and the Imp had not.

Hunger woke inside her as the queen descended, leaving Traitor's Walk behind. With quick sure steps she strode back to her apartments, leaning on Ser Lyn Corbray so she did not slip on the ice. At least she could look forward to an excellent dinner.

Some enterprising fishermen who lived along the Blackwater had managed to catch quite a lot of eels from beneath the filthy green ice that floated upon the river. The goldcloaks had orders to claim the best eels for the king's table, and this morning they had confiscated several damp sacks of still wriggling eels. The cook had orders to prepare them for the queen's dinner, turned inside out, stuffed with spices, breadcrumbs, and tender meat, and then cooked in a fine red wine.

The queen reached her chambers to find an apprentice pyromancer waiting nervously outside her door, fidgeting with his long robes. When he saw the queen, he bowed deeply, to her approval. Cersei approved less of his message, some nonsense about Ser Jacelyn Bywater finding a cache of wildfire beneath the Gate of the Gods.

"Let Lord Hallyne deal with it," she told him, irritated by his nasal voice.

A nap would not have gone amiss, nor a cup of wine. But no sooner had Cersei seated herself in a plush chair than a knock came at the door, so soft it almost went unheard and unremarked.

"What is it?" The queen snapped.

"Queen Talla is without, Your Grace," Ser Lyn called through the door. "She begs an urgent audience."

Seven save her, could she not have a moment's rest? "Send her in." And Lady Talla best pray she has a good reason for disturbing me, or she shall wish she had not.

The girl who was ushered into her room was just as mousy as she recalled. Talla Tarly was still in her riding furs, her prominent ears and snub nose red from the cold.

"Your Grace," the girl stammered. "Your Grace, the king- the king-"

The queen rolled her eyes, and handed her cup of wine to the girl, commanding her to drink deep. That only made matters worse; the girl swallowed it too quickly, and started coughing. Unwilling to be coughed at, the queen strode to the door. One redcloak she sent running for Grand Maester Gerold, another for Lady Darlessa Marbrand, a third for the captain of the redcloaks who had escorted Tommen through the city.

Darlessa Marbrand arrived first, out of breath and out of temper. A few terse words sufficed to explain why Lady Talla was so distraught. Shortly after returning to the Red Keep, a raven had lit upon King Tommen's arm. A letter had been tied to its leg, a letter which made the king turn pale as he read it.

"The king sent for Ser Addam, but would not say another word." Darlessa shrugged irritably. "No doubt my nephew will have reached his king by now. When last I saw Tommen, he was striding for the throne room, with the little queen struggling to keep up."

By the time Ser Lyn led Cersei to the throne room, she had a stitch in her side and an escort of redcloaks at her back. The great oaken doors were shut; Ser Addam Marbrand and a dozen goldcloaks stood guard. She could feel her teeth chattering; she had not bothered to put on a cloak, and the cold wind pierced her like a blade.

"Admit me," the queen demanded.

Ser Addam did not so much as blink. "The king is not to be disturbed."

"You dare?" The queen could not believe his presumption. "I am Queen Regent, and you will obey me!"

"I obey King Tommen."

Ser Addam stood straight as steel, glowering at her with a venom she had never seen before. He wore no helm, yet when she slapped him across the face, it was as though she had slapped a stone wall. Furious, she made to push past him, when suddenly the ground rose up and slapped her.

"He laid hands on the queen!" Ser Lyn roared.

Everything was a blur, clouded by a haze of pain. Cloaks of gold and cloaks of red whirled and spun; steel clashed; blood splattered her face; wood groaned. Then all was quiet again. Rough hands helped Cersei to her feet, helping her step over the white knight who lay upon the threshold, his throat a red ruin.

Once they were inside, Ser Lyn barred the door. The Kingsguard took up his post, still holding his naked blade in his hand. Lady Forlorn shone red with blood; the queen could taste its coppery tang upon her lips. But that did not matter, nothing mattered, save her son.

The Iron Throne loomed at the other end of the hall, its blades and barbs drinking in the light. Tommen sat in their midst, a crown upon his head and a cat upon his lap. All was silence as the queen strode toward him, save for the soft sound of her steps echoing off the walls, and that of her heart thudding in her ears.

Once, twice, thrice she called his name, yet Tommen did not seem to hear. Up the steps Cersei climbed, careful not to cut herself on the jagged steel. By the time she reached the top, her mouth was dry; she would have killed for a cup of wine.

"Tommen," she snapped.

She tried to shoo Ser Pounce away. The cat hissed, laying his ears flat against his head. His ginger and white fur bristled, his claws dug into the king's surcoat as if he would not be dislodged. Her son still wore his cloak; the twin lion brooch was askew again, though the gold and rubies still gleamed brightly.

"It's all true," Tommen mumbled. He looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed. "It's all true?"

"What?"

"My sister..." Tommen sniffled.

One hand rubbed at his nose; the other clutched a letter. The parchment was crumpled and torn, but the writing looked familiar, full of girlish loops and swirls, though the bottom of the letter had been written in a different hand. Cersei squinted, trying to make out the words, something about a veil- her blood ran cold.

"Cella..."

"Myrcella, sweetling," the queen corrected.

Tommen drew a shuddering breath. "Cella- she and Trys were trying to escape- and they- and they- oh, gods..."

"Lord Qyburn will pay for this," Cersei swore. She bent and embraced him, forcing the cat to scramble off his lap. "Oh, my sweet boy, there, there, don't cry. Myrcella is safe now, the usurper cannot touch her—"

And suddenly her son was shoving her away, so hard she almost fell.

"I'm the usurper!" Tommen stood, his whole body shaking. "I'm a- a bastard, an abomination! Cella wouldn't lie to me, she wouldn't—" Tommen paled. "Poor Lady Cedra, oh, gods what have I done?"

"These are forgeries!" the queen snarled. She ripped the letter from his grasp. "Lies, poison, a trick to make you give up your rightful throne.
"

"It's not my throne," Tommen said hollowly. "I told Talla to fetch the Grand Maester. I will summon the small council, and tell them I will bend the knee. If I join the Faith, maybe I can make amends—"

"No!" Cersei hissed, cutting him off. "We cannot give up the throne—"

"I'm the king, not you!"

Tommen fumbled at his cloak, ripping off the twin lion brooch and flinging it away. The crown of golden antlers was harder to remove; it had caught in his golden curls. When he yanked it free, a tangle of hair came with it, making Tommen yelp with pain.

This time, the queen was ready. When Tommen threw the crown, she caught it. It did not matter that her son loomed over her; there were only a few steps between them. All it took was a single long stride, and Cersei was struggling to place the crown back on his head as Tommen fought with her, until with a mighty shove, he fell back onto the throne, the crown still on his head.

"There," the queen panted, bending over to catch her breath. She was amazed that she had not cut herself on the throne. There were blades sticking up every which way; Robert had often complained that he could not even rest his back against the damned thing. "Now, there is no need to act in haste; you cannot be so rash, that is Jaime, not you."

Cersei looked up at the sound of Tommen's gasp, a wet, shuddering sound. When he gasped again, blood splattered her face. Only then did she see the glint of steel where a sharp point emerged from his breast.

"No!" That shrill cry could not be the queen's, it could not. She fell to her knees, clutching her son's hands in hers. "Nonononono!"

A voice was screaming for Ser Lyn, for Qyburn, for the Mother Above, oh please, oh please, let him keep breathing, Tommen must not die, he could not die, not so long as his chest still rose and fell—

When Qyburn came, her son was still.


Uhm. Oh god I'm so sorry. Uhm. Cersei is very funny until she isn't. See you in the comments?

My apologies for the slow pace; reminder you can get updates on my tumblr. Also, this chapter puts us over 700k. Christ.

Up Next

157: Jon I

158: Bran I

159: Jaime

160: Bel I

NOTES

1) Cersei's small council meltdown was partially inspired by the Downfall meme.

2) Maester Gerold's bronze sphere is an armillary sphere.

3) Dentures are mentioned in ASOIAF; Dywen has a set of wooden teeth. In real life, crude dentures existed in ancient Rome, although full dentures do not appear to have existed until they were invented in Japan in the 1500s.

4) The world of ASOIAF features dungeons in many castles. However, the pop culture idea of a medieval dungeon is a myth, taken from Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott:

"This extremely popular work of fiction has done a lot to shape people's minds when it comes to the Middle Ages, as have other novels, movies and video games. The image they almost always show is that within a castle there will be a place underground which is dark and grimy. It will be here that prisoners will be chained to the walls...

...The reality is that it is very hard to find castles that have anything like this."

You can read more at the link, but I'm appalled that such an iconic aspect of medieval fantasy is a fabrication. I don't expect perfect accuracy, but given how fiction plays a pivotal role in how many people view history, there should be *some* attempt at fact checking.

5) Speaking of dungeons, let's talk about medieval torture. Hooooo boy. If you google "medieval torture", you will get a ton of results featuring Iron Maidens, pears of anguish, and other horrifying devices... almost all of which are 1) not from the medieval era, but from centuries later; 2) weren't actually torture devices, or, 3) in the case of the Iron Maiden, are a straight up hoax/fake. The widespread amount of misinformation is dizzying and infuriating.

Thankfully, GRRM uses none of these devices. He does, however, seem to have mixed up stocks, boards with holes which restrain the ankles of a person sitting down, and the pillory, which restrains the neck and wrists of a standing person who is bent over.

"...stocks were hammered together for pretty Pia and the other women who'd shared their favors with Lannister soldiers. Stripped and shaved, they were left in the middle ward beside the bear pit, free for the use of any man who wanted them."

ACOK, Arya X

Uh... setting aside whether this sort of public rape would be plausible in a medieval setting, even under Roose Bolton, here's what stocks look like:

Versus pillory:

...yeah, pillories are what show up in BDSM porn, not stocks. Dangit, GRRM.

6) Eels were a common part of the medieval diet, as I found out from a delightful twitter account run by a Doctor of Medieval History who is really into the history of eels. Apparently Glastonbury Abbey actually had a guy whose job was to swipe the best eels from local fishermen! The inside-out eel dish was a real thing, a French recipe that sounds annoyingly complicated to make, which is perfect for Cersei, who loves inconveniencing people.

7) The enormity that is Casterly Rock is overwhelming. As a reference, I used this analysis by joannalannister.