CHAPTER SIXTEEN: INTERLUDE I: THE QUEEN ON THE IRON THRONE
Cersei Lannister, The Queen on The Iron Throne, deals with dissent, losses, and the arrival and return of two other monarchs. In the protection of The Red Keep, she decides how she wants to secure her hold, all the while losing what she cannot lose.
The Iron Throne is no comfort under her, in her tight-fitting bodice and flowing skirts, but she can barely register that, too caught in it all. She, Cersei the daughter of Tywin Lannister, sits upon The Iron Throne. He spent so many long years trying to get a grandson on the throne, but now she knows he should have looked nearer. To the daughter born of him, the first of his children, the one who he never quite appreciated. And yet, here she is. Queen. Queen at long last.
You will be queen, for a time...until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear. Cersei breathes deeply as the old witch's voice fills her mind, curling her fingers into a fist on The Iron Throne, only half listening to the wheedling petitioner who is speaking of something or another. Some snowstorm on the border of The Vale that destroyed some crops or something. She doesn't quite care.
She glances over at Qyburn, her Hand, who seems to be actually somewhat listening to the petition at least, and then at her guard, the reanimated Mountain. Certainly, Dorne will be unhappy to know the truth when it eventually reaches them, but she cares even less about them, secluded in their deserts. The Red Keep will be hard to invade, not without significant casualties, and Dorne seems content to cower behind their mountains, scared by the shadows they cast. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken, indeed.
Finally, the petitions end for the day, and she rises from her throne, sweeping out without a word, headed to the Small Council chamber at the back of the Throne Room. While certainly, she likes the Small Council Chamber in the Tower of the Hand well enough, this one is good for some more clandestine conversations, along with regular meetings, though she still needs to make sure that there are no secret ways to enter it at night. The Tower of The Hand has too many entryways, and too many places that could be breached. She will keep her council with Qyburn and the things they discuss there, to this room, at least until The Tower of The Hand is properly fortified.
Since her coronation, she has found that The Red Keep, despite being difficult to breach by an army, due to the City that surrounds it, is far too prone to infiltration. Maegor The Cruel might have had the builders of the Red Keep executed to make all its secrets die with them, but she will discover them all, and she will not allow anything else to breach these walls, friendly or otherwise. But the work is slow going, the workers prone to complaint as Winter slowly sets in, and her patience is rapidly thinning.
Still, work must be done. As she sits at the Small Council table, skirts swirling around her, Qyburn disappears into an adjacent room to procure the whispers and notes that they had uncovered and been sent, whispers of the realm. He is a Good Master of Whisperers, indeed, and an even better Hand. He is the only one she is certain of being loyal, after all, and she has barely met with the rest of the council, a collection of idiots who spend more time looking at her in horror than getting anything done. Though, she supposes, The Mountain's shadow is no great help in that regard.
Tapping her fingers against the table as she waits, she slowly reaches up to take the crown off her head, resting it on the table. It is gold as her hair, glimmering in the afternoon light that streams through the windows, and she takes a moment to fix her hair and trace her eyes over the crown before she puts it back on, right in time for Qyburn to return. He sets a booklet on the table, and sits beside her, offering a slip of paper to her.
"The rumours are confirmed," he says, voice strained as she reads over the words, "The Stark girl and her bastard brother now have Winterfell, and The Northern banners are behind them. The Boltons are dead, but there is little indication that they intend to take any action against The South. In fact, they seem to only be concerned with the coming of Winter, with them taking great measures to begin fortifying against it."
Cersei sits back in her chair, lip curling in disgust mingled with anger. Sansa Stark. The name rings in her head like a bell, like the bells that sounded when her Joffrey died, when Tommen was taken from her, when Myrcella was brought home by Jaime, dead. Gold will be their shrouds. But that she-wolf and Tyrion, they are the cold thoughts in the night. He reared his ugly head and she used her dark northern magic and killed her boy. Their names are cold knives in her heart, and now… now.
Now Sansa is out of her reach with her bastard half-brother, and the rumours around Tyrion are worse. Surrounded by Dragons and the Hand to another Queen, coming to the shores of Westeros to land an army of Essosi Unnuchs and Dothraki Horse Lords on these shores and take The Seven Kingdoms through Fire and Blood. But Cersei's father was the one who toppled the Targaryens, and she will do much the same to this so-called Mother of Dragons when she finally comes from Slaver's Bay to Westeros.
"We will not be able to reach Winterfell, will we?" She feels her lips curl down into an even deeper frown. "I want that girl dead for what she did."
"Not for some time, no," Qyburn agrees. "The Northmen are an untrusting type, especially now. But in time, perhaps I can get someone in reach of Sansa and The Bastard both. But we also do still have Robb Stark in the cells of Casterly Rock. Perhaps he–"
"No," she says sharply. "We wait on Robb Stark. I want Sansa and that Bastard, Snow, dead, first. They hold Winterfell, and until we topple them, Robb Stark is of little issue. He is well-protected and well-held in Casterly Rock. After Sansa and the bastard are dead, I will have Robb Stark and his men brought to the capital, and see them executed by The Mountain. Their heads will be sent North, as a warning to any lords who get ideas. We will need to figure out who to place in Winterfell, now that The Boltons are gone."
"I will begin scouting out options, Your Grace," he says with a slimy smile. She nods, and he continues after a moment. "But as to your prior questions about The Bastard–it is still unknown how he escaped his vows from The Wall. But we also have news that Benjen Stark, Eddard Stark's younger brother, has returned, and now holds The Wall as the 999th Lord Commander."
The whole of The North, in the hands of Wolves, and The Vale a half step behind them. I should have had that traitorous Littlefinger killed years ago, she thinks with gritted teeth. She does not voice her displeasure at the news, but it shows on her face well enough, she's certain. But she is not afraid. After all, by what right does the wolf judge the lion? The Starks are no paragons of virtue, same as she. And Sansa and that bastard are barely adults, and facing a cold winter. Perhaps nature will take care of them both for Cersei! Wouldn't that be a sight!
"The other Stark is of little concern to us, in truth," she says. "Leave him to his cold exile on The Wall. He will be busy enough with Winter on the horizon, certainly too busy to be any threat to us. But try and figure out where he was during the war, and what he was doing. I do not like this sudden reappearance of this many Starks. Do not let him go unmonitored."
He nods along, taking a few notes. She doubts that there is much to the notes, but she does not say so, interlacing her fingers before her. "What of the other houses? Who has declared?"
"Word came from your brother Jaime this morning. He says that Riverrun is once more in our hands and that The Blackfish has once more fled. With Edmure Tully, we now have a solid hold on The Westerlands, The Crownlands, and The Riverlands. I am still waiting to hear from the Lords of The Stormlands, but with Stannis Baratheon dead along with most of their armies, they're little help to us anyway. The Vale is with The North, and will certainly not declare for you unless at swordpoint, which will be difficult with Winter setting in."
"So we turn to Dorne and the Reach," she surmises. He nods again, pulling out another slip of paper. "What of them?"
"Olenna Tyrell, along with her two remaining grandsons, have said nothing in reply. The Queen of Thorns is back in Highgarden, last anyone heard, and Willas is now Lord Paramount of the Reach. But she seems as in control as ever, and the boy seems to heed her advice well. He will not bend the knee to you, not if she is in his ear, at the very least. She will need to be dealt with before long."
She nods along, fingers curling into a fist on the desk. "When Jaime returns, tell him that I want him to ride to Highgarden and take it in force. Olenna is to die. Willas and Garlan may be spared, but only if they agree to bend the knee. If the Hightowers prove to be difficult, we take Old Town next. I will not have rebelling Lords sitting comfortably in their keeps. And Dorne?"
"No true word from them," he says, looking a little more troubled. "Nothing beyond that it would appear that not only is Prince Doran preparing to set sail, but that his eldest son Quentyn, was killed in Meereen, by one of Daenerys Targaryen's three dragons. The details are sparse, but even then, it would seem that Dorne is still planning to ally with the Targaryen girl. They have no love for House Lannister, and there are no other options besides her."
"We cannot take Dorne, not immediately," she says, and he nods. "But we can cripple this Targaryen girl's army well enough. I want Euron patrolling the seas. Until we have The Reach and until Dorne is in hand, he will not be able to sail freely in their waters, but he can still slip by, perhaps to the Stormlands. If she plans to attack anywhere, I want him there. When will he be returning to King's Landing from his endeavours in The Free Cities and the sellsword companies? Any news about them as well?"
"Indeed, Your Grace," Qyburn says, procuring a letter. "He wrote just this morning. He has almost all companies in Essos, and will be bringing them to Westeros within the fortnight. He could not, however, contact the Golden Company, which seems to have disappeared around the ruins of Valyrian, or perhaps as far East as even Ghiscar, for one reason or another, or The Second Sons, which are allied to Daenerys Targaryen and now hold Slaver's Bay in her name."
Cersei frowns again. "What do you mean that The Golden Company has disappeared? They're one of the largest Sellsword companies in the whole world, they cannot have simply disappeared. And if they have, why?"
"Rumours disagree on why, but what we know is that The Golden Company is taking very few new contracts, if any. They seem to be doing much the same as The North is here in Westeros; they are turning in on themselves, and likely preparing for something else. Leave them to it. With the other companies, and the men we already have, our numbers sit around 45,000. And once we have The Reach, that number will be closer to 55,000."
"And our enemies?"
"Daenerys has some 7,000 Unsullied, and right now her numbers with The Reach and Dorne add about 20,000 more. It is hard to tell with both The Dothraki and Northmen alike, but the armies of The North and The Vale likely number somewhere around, oh, 15,000 or less, with about half of The Northern forces unable to be called, with their Lord Paramount and nearly all his bannermen in chains."
"So our numbers are higher," she surmises.
"Most likely, yes," he says with a smile, and she smiles as well, feeling a little bold. Any further discussion is quelled as a serving girl comes scurrying in at last with some wine, and she resists the urge to ask what took the whelp so long. But the girl scampers away again before she can ask, and she rolls her eyes at the show, making a note to figure out who she is. After all, Varys is with that Dragon Queen, or so reports say, and she will not have the Spider hearing too much in her Castle. "But she has three dragons."
"If she does not want to be The Mad King reborn, and live up to her policies of Slaver's Bay, she will likely hesitate to use them. And her advisors will likely counsel her to take smaller steps," She says, her lip curling on the word advisors. When she gets her hands on Tyrion again, never mind that Stark bitch, she will take great joy in taking their lives from them, just as they took her son's. "We will strike hard and fast."
He nods, and before long, the rest of The Small Council is trickling in, and she finds herself subjugated to an actual meeting, full of their twittering nonsense and stupidity. Apparently, the news of Winterfell's reclamation is making waves through The Red Keep and the city alike, and she grits her teeth as she hears them speak of it in hushed whispers and with nervous laughs. Gritting her teeth further when they make some unsavoury comments, she forces herself through the madness, sipping long and deeply from her wine, one of the only comforts left to her now that war looms on the horizon.
That evening, when all is said and done, she stands in her quarters, overlooking the city. The ruins of The Great Sept are vaguely visible in the distance, and she slowly sips from her glass as she stares out at them. Placing her hand on her stomach, she thinks of Jaime, hundreds of miles away, forced to deal with the idiotic Freys and the mewling Edmure Tully, a man with less spine than a worm. The thought of that, though, is slightly entertaining, she will admit.
But she does not dwell too long on the city, and the people within. Her mind is full of thoughts of war, images of death, images of the golden shrouds that covered her children. Her heart aches for all of them, but she cannot let her grief consume her. War is on the horizon, and she is Tywin Lannister's daughter. She must approach this as he did, she must show the realm why she has the Iron Throne.
She goes to bed thinking of Jaime, sweet, lovely Jaime.
(What she confesses to no one, save for Qyburn, are the slashes on her fingers. Perhaps, when winter comes settling over, she can set a new trend in the courts with gloves, so that any slashes the Iron Throne gives her will go unnoticed by prying eyes. She knows the court is looking for every excuse as to why she is wrong, why a woman like her cannot sit the throne. Seldom has a woman been allowed to sit The Iron Throne in peace. Never before, actually, and she will become the first, once this war is one, and all the Kings and Queens, the wolves and the dragons, are dead.
Every night, she applies a salve to her fingers and stretches them out. Apparently, Catelyn Stark slashed her hands years ago, defending that crippled son of hers. But what good did it do her? She is dead and that same fate will befall all her children, and that bastard, before Winter's end, and Cersei will have survived them all. The woman wailed like a dying horse at The Red Wedding, or so they say. The only sympathy she can feel for the woman is the love that every mother holds for her children.
But, still. Cersei is a mother to none now. Catelyn Stark is buried in a silent crypt, alongside that damned woman that Robert never stopped loving. Lyanna Stark. He whispered her name the night of the wedding. Cersei will be glad to see all of House Stark gone at long last, the wolves having far overstayed their welcome on this continent. They have lived far, far too long.)
Her dreams are full of wildfire and falling snow alike. When she wakes up, the sun streams in dimly through the curtains, and when she rises to see why, her heart is in her throat as she sees the snow falling gently over the city. It does not appear to be sticking, but this is not the first time that snow has fallen since the White Raven came from The Citadel, only a week or so ago. Before long, the snow will be here for so much longer, and she needs to have The Throne firmly in hand by then.
The Winds of Winter, some of the court call the cold gales that blow through the city in sudden and merciless bursts. She has been hearing for the better part of a decade, since the final few years of the Long Summer, that the Winter that is coming for Westeros will be the longest and coldest one seen in centuries, maybe even in thousands of years. Though she never dares to let the thoughts consume her nor does she give them time to ferment, she thinks of The Starks, alone in their cold keep.
Winter is Coming, they always say, so serious and foolishly noble. But perhaps this is the one thing they are right in, the one thing they know better than anyone else. She will need Sansa Stark and that bastard Jon Snow dead and will need them dead soon, so she can kill the Young Wolf as well and be done with it. Because if the snows fall too hard, all hope of their defeat will die, and she will find herself at the edge of their swords.
But Cersei Lannister has no plans to die.
—
"So Daenerys Targaryen has made landfall in Westeros," Cersei says coolly, her eyes roving over the map that she had painted in the courtyard a few days prior. Qyburn nods as she crosses over to where Dragonstone is painted, her eyes narrowing as she registers how close that girl is to her. "And now, her ships are on the move, using the cover of Dorne and The Reach to evade our eyes. But to where?"
"We cannot be sure, Your Grace," Qyburn says, sounding almost nervous. "Her ships have been stripped down, and are not travelling together. They left a while ago from Dragonstone, but they were only spotted once or twice in The Stormlands and information was slow to travel, hence the delay. She is showing a remarkable eye for that, though I suppose it helps that she has two Ironborn behind her."
"Euron's niece and nephew," she recalls, and he nods. She takes a long sip of her wine and crosses over to where The Iron Islands are on the map, staring at their shape. They're close to the Westerlands, which gives her some comfort, but she also knows that Euron will not be here for another day or two, reporting ill weather, and a snag while departing that she is certain she will hear all about from the half-mad sailor. "The nephew…he was raised alongside the Starks, no? And then he betrayed them."
"Yes," Qyburn says. "Theon Greyjoy, his name is."
Cersei snorts, sipping her wine to hide her smile. "Then this Dragon Queen is more of a fool than we thought, trusting a known turncloak. She will have the vipers at her throat before long. Inform Euron that he can drop the Sellsword companies off in King's Landing when he arrives, but that I want him out and to find her fleet immediately. I will meet with him after he returns from that endeavour."
Qyburn nods but does not quite move to go. She glances at him, a frown on her face as she asks, sharply, "What is it?"
"Whispers are beginning to surface around trouble at The Twins. My sources are running dry, in that regard, but something has happened there. What exactly, and to what end, I cannot quite figure out, but I will deliver the news to you as soon as I have it. It could easily be a foolhardy attack from some Riverland men whose cloaks are still to the Starks, but there is a strange and unsettling lack of news coming from The Twins."
"Jaime was at The Twins, recently, though," she says, and he nods. She frowns, once again sipping at her wine and roving her eyes towards where The Twins stand proud, the chokehold that keeps The North from them, and sometimes, them from The North. She always knew Walder Frey was a bumbling fool, but if he has lost The Twins or something like that to some foolish act of petty revenge, she will have his head and put one of his sons in his place, no questions asked. "He will be dealing with it."
She does not like the thought of that, nor how it makes her stomach lurch but she supposes it is only natural. She has not seen him in far too long, and she hopes the business at The Twins does not steal him away for too long. The whole of her world has always just been him and her, and there is nothing else that matters to her, not with her children all buried in golden shrouds. The only thing that comes close is thoughts of Tyrion finally dying, but she only lingers on those thoughts in the dark moments.
She rests her hand on her stomach, the other holding her wine tightly as she regards the map. Too many enemies, closing around on all sides. The North, with their snows and their wolves, are at least barred by The Twins. Dorne is too slow-moving to make her mind turn to them, but the same cannot be said for The Reach and that damnable Olenna Tyrell. If only she'd been the Great Sept with her granddaughter, grandson, and idiot son! Cersei's life would be infinitely easier.
"He will, Your Grace," Qyburn says evenly. She's not certain the disgraced Maester has the capability of raising his voice. There is a certain quiet calm to him, one she finds she deeply appreciates. She does not need fiery tempers and too bold personalities, or certainly sharp tongues. Her mind turns again to Tyrion, and her fingers tighten on her drink. "Should I request Ser Jaime ride South ahead of his men, to meet with you?"
"Yes," she says, and Qyburn nods then, leaving her in peace. Her only companion is the shadow of The Mountain, the one thing that might just get Dorne actually moving. She does not disagree that they have reason to hate him, given what happened to Elia Martell, but she would like to see them try and kill what is already dead. What was it that Euron said to her, when they met, his cold blue eye alight with icy fire? What is dead may never die. An Ironborn saying, one she quite likes herself.
That night, as she lies in bed, it is not just Jaime that fills her mind. Euron Greyjoy is a strangely interesting man, in the way that any person is interested by monstrosities beyond their mind. The Crow's Eye wants a throne to go along with being the Driftwood King. She is the bride he has in mind, she knows, and he is certainly handsome, but he is not Jaime. And yet, there is something undeniable about him, something beautiful about a pawn like him being on her board.
If they were to marry, certainly they would both take others to their beds. Perhaps…when all is said and done, she can give The Crow's Eye what he so desires, all while still having the one thing she herself has always wanted as well. Thoughts of Jaime fill her mind, and all is right in the world as she applies the salve to the cuts on her fingers, her mind honed in on thoughts of Jaime, and all that he is to her. Her world. The whole of her being.
When she wakes up, there is a rainstorm in King's Landing, but at least it is not snowing. She watches the rain hammer down over the city as her maids get her dressed for the day, and she cannot deny the undone nerve in her stomach, the acute sense that something is wrong even before the day has begun. And when she finds Qyburn in the Small Council chamber behind the Throne Room, before the day's petitions begin, and sees his face, she knows her sense was right. He hands her a note.
She reads over the message no less than three times before she asks if it's true. The words make little sense to her, barely able to register in her mind due to the sheer impossibility of it all. Every male member of House Frey has been killed. It reads. Assassin unknown and has disappeared. No description can be pulled from surviving Frey girls. Assassin left only two messages.
"The North Remembers," she says cooly, reading out the final two phrases of the unsigned message, though she would recognise the handwriting anywhere, and it is almost enough to calm her burning fury. "Winter came for House Frey." She sees Qyburn nod from the corner of her eye, and she makes a furious noise, crumpling up the note and then throwing it into the fire. She has little doubt that Qyburn has already made copies of it, so she takes delight in watching it crumble up and burn to ashes.
"Those are Northern adages; this assassin was hired by The Starks," she says, absolutely seething, and forcing herself to sit down. He nods, folding his hands together in front of him, looking the closest to troubled she thinks she has ever seen him. "Or, they are at the very least, loyal to them. And now they are on the loose, an assassin who slaughtered the whole of a House in only a few days. How many days ago did this happen?"
"Two days ago, Your Grace," he says, and she nods. "The letter came from Ser Jaime, as you likely know." She nods. His handwriting has always been distinct, and it's only gotten more distinct with the loss of his hand. "He sent another note, as well, likely not detailing The Freys. It was addressed to you, Your Grace, so I left it sealed."
She nods at him in thanks as he hands it to her, unfurling it with a fluttering stomach. Cersei, it reads.I will be in King's Landing by the same night this letter reaches you. I was already on the road home when I heard, hence my speedy arrival. I am riding hard and trust little to the safety of this raven, so I will save what I have to say for my arrival. But we must speak, and speak immediately. It is simply signed, Jaime.
She throws it down on the table, nodding when Qyburn reaches to read it. Taking a very long sip of her wine, she glares at the crackling fire, her mind alight with a hundred and one dark thoughts about what power could be given to someone to allow them to do what they did. Neither of Jaime's letters spoke of how The Freys died, but all that does is leave her mind open to imagination. And certainly, with a Stark loyalist behind it, they could have made it no less clean than The Red Wedding was.
Tyrion had said it, had he not, when news came? The North will never forget this, her father had said he'd said. She had not been there for that conversation, but when he spoke of it, he seemed to fixate on it, though they both dismissed it, saying that The North was allowed to do whatever they damn well pleased. And then…Robb Stark was brought before the court, and his whore sister mewled and wailed for him as he did the very same, both of them the very picture of disgrace.
She sits up in her chair, her voice cold and as sharp as The Iron Throne when she speaks, slowly, carefully, dangerously. She's kept that man alive for far too long, wholly consumed with other prizes. "Get word to Casterly Rock. I want Robb Stark's head on a spike before the week is over. Him and all his bannermen. And then see to it that Sansa Stark and her bastard brother are shortly behind. Them and their beasts. I want House Stark gone."
"I will see it done," Qyburn says, and she nods, tapping her fingers on the table. "Though, would you like Sansa Stark and Jon Snow brought South first? So you can see one of them die?"
"Sansa, if it can be made to work," she agrees. "Let the bastard rot in The North. But, yes, I would very much like to see that Stark whore die, die as Joffrey did. Watch as she turns purple and chokes on her breath and tries to fight it, but cannot. I will do what she and Tyrion did to Joffrey right back to them." Tyrion's voice echoes in the back of her mind like a drum, like an omen, like a ghost she can never shake. A day will come when you think you are safe and happy, and your joy will turn to ashes in your mouth.
She clenches her jaw tightly, her fingers curling into a fist, pulling the delicate skin taught, making it hurt. But the pain draws her closer, at least, to reality, dispels the shadows and the whispers that haunt every corner of her mind. Tyrion crawled through the walls to kill their father. He could be anywhere. No one brought her his head, not one foolish idiot who tried. And now he stands behind The Dragon Queen, and his wife sits pretty in Winterfell, thinking herself untouchable beside The Bastard of Winterfell. But Cersei will show them. She will remind them all what fear tastes like.
That night, as she nurses another glass of wine, Jaime finally arrives. She is on her feet the second he is through the door, skirts sweeping out behind her as she comes to him, pausing when she sees his face. He looks…haggard, and tired, and she has never been so struck by how much the war and the toil of the past few years has changed him. Even still, her heart soars as she sees him, hugging him tightly and smiling in contentment when he hugs her back.
But the good humour does not last long. He speaks all that he can about The Freys, and she does not miss the look in his eyes, the doubt and the uncertainty. It's very much the same look he gave her at her coronation, and despite how much she still loves him, still craves him, he is starting to feel like a stranger. She doesn't doubt that it runs both ways, but still, his steady, even voice is familiar as he spins the strange tale he has for her.
"We will find this assassin," she finally says when he finishes, swishing her wine around in her cup before taking a sip. He tracks the movement with his eyes, and she feels her stomach twist as she sees the look in them. She sets the cup down before continuing. "We will find them, I swear. Have them confess all, tell us how they did it, and who hired them, before making an example of them. Though, I suppose they did us a favour. Walder Frey was a bumbling old fool, anyway, and his sons were only worse–"
"–Cersei." His voice is flat, sharp on the cadence of her name in a way it never used to be. It makes her stomach curl and her heart harden. "Whoever did this was no simple…assassin. I read the reports. Whatever poison they used against the Freys was fast-acting and painful. This was thought out. They slipped past every defence and were likely there when I was, and I didn't have a single clue. Catching them will be hard. You are not safe."
"I am plenty safe," she replies, voice just as flat, her eyes trailing slowly to where The Mountain stands guard at the door. Jaime follows her gaze, and she knows the look in his eyes as he regards what has become of The Mountain is something dangerously close to disgust. "You should be more worried about yourself, Jaime. Daenerys Targaryen, The Mad King's Daughter, has made landfall in Westeros. What do you think she'll do to you, once she has her hands on you?"
"She won't get her hands on me," he replies, voice taking on a sharper edge, twin to hers, like so many other things they share. Cersei smirks slightly, sitting back in her chair and rubbing her thumb over the stem of her cup. But Jaime sighs after a moment, running his hand over his face. "But I hear from your Hand that you have plans to take Highgarden from The Tyrells?" She nods.
"I'll do it," he says, and she resists the urge to say, Of course, you will because I am ordering you to do so. She does not think that he would take it well, and she is not in the mood to exchange barbed words with Jaime, nor does she want to have him leave her with a black heart. She just got him back, and he will not be home again for so many weeks, once he leaves. She will enjoy what time she has with him, for now.
"I also have my men investigating the murders," he says, after a long pause. "Bronn stayed for a day or two, I believe, but I will tell him to meet me on the road to Highgarden, with what men he has behind him. But I will make sure that I keep men in The Neck and near The Twins, both to try and track the assassin, but also to see if we can get our hands on The Blackfish again."
"I hear he swam upstream once more," she says flatly.
His reply is just as devoid of any emotion save for thinly veiled displeasure. "He did." His fingers drum a maddening staccato against the table, and she sips at her wine, the air cold and pulled taut between them, a foreign discomfort between them. When he speaks again, he does not look at her, and his voice is still carefully even. "The Banners of The Reach will not turn to you unless they think The Tyrells are dead, and even then, it is unlikely that The Hightowers will turn. That will require taking Old Town by force."
"Do what you must," she says. "If The Tyrell boys escape, hunt them down, but do not make it known. We will need the crops of The Reach, as well, once Winter comes in force. Do whatever it takes to get the banners behind you, and if it is demanded of you, take Old Town through any means necessary. It will be good, anyway, to hold The Citadel, Oldtown's port, and The Hightower. For that matter, turn to it, once Highgarden is secure. Then we will hold three of the five cities."
"I thought White Harbour declared for us?"
"Sansa Stark and her bastard Half-Brother have Winterfell, the reports confirmed it earlier this week. The Manderlys have turned their cloaks back to them, and all ships from South of The Neck have been turned away. They seem to be trading only with Essos, but Euron Greyjoy has been recruiting what Sellsword companies and Free City governments he can, so hopefully that will strike them where it hurts."
Jaime nods, a troubled light glimmering deep within his green eyes, the eyes they share. But when she meets his eyes, it is gone, and thoughts of it fade away soon enough, anyway.
—
It's never a good thing, to be woken up even before daybreak, and that's even before she sees the look in Qyburn's eyes. At least she has Jaime at her side, and his hand on her lower back as she follows Qyburn to her solar, where they can speak in silence. She pulls her robe closer around her, a peculiar chill in the air as she looks at the walls, and wonders at who else may be listening. She sits down, Jaime beside her, and her Hand seems to hesitate for a long moment before speaking.
"Daenerys Targaryen, her dragons, and her army of Unsullied have taken Casterly Rock," he says. Cersei feels her heart drop to her feet, her breath leaving her lungs as she stares in confusion at Qyburn. Jaime, at her side, goes still as a corpse in the grave. As still as our children were under their golden shrouds. "Some Lords of the Westerlands have declared for her, though I am still receiving news on that end. And she has left a new castellan in Lannisport, trapping the Lannisters there in her noose. I am sorry, Your Grace."
"Do not be sorry," she spits, rushing to her feet, and beginning to pace, her body shaking. "There is no time for regret or for sorrow. We need to fix this and fix it now. Jaime, you will ride for Highgarden in the morning, and destroy House Tyrell, once and for all. Qyburn, exhaust all resources you have to see that Dragon Queen dead, and her advisors brought before me. They are all traitors to the realm, traitors to me, and I will have their heads for it."
He bows his head. She keeps pacing, her mind whirling with half a hundred nightmares, images of a foreign, strange army in the halls of her home, the halls of House Lannister. She wants to say that it does not cut, this theft, but oh, it does. It cuts deep and leaves her feeling nearly as raw and as bare to the world as her Walk of Punishment did. This…Dragon Queen has stolen her home, stolen the one place that has always belonged to her and Jaime. She feels a dark and bitter fury rise up in her, and she turns to her Hand and Jaime with furious tears in her eyes. "How did this happen?"
"The guards left at The Rock were no match for The Unsullied," Qyburn says. "And what's worse…the sack was the day after the massacre at The Twins. I do not dare to believe that this was a coordinated effort between the Targaryen girl and House Stark, but until I have ruled it out, it is imperative we assume that they are working together."
Jaime's brows furrow tightly. "Why would House Stark ever work with the Targaryens?" He says, sounding confused, his fingers once again drumming against her desk as he seems to think on it. "I recall Ned Stark's disdain for them, well enough. While he was certainly not Robert, he held no love for The Mad King, nor for Rhaegar Targaryen." His mouth pulls into a frown, and he seems to abstain from saying something else, sighing tiredly. "Why would his children ally themselves with them?"
"Because they share a common enemy," Cersei says, failing to keep the annoyance out of her voice. It is unbearably obvious why The Stark and The Targaryens would bind together because, at the end of the day, they do share one common enemy: her, and her House. The thought makes her stomach curl with discomfort. "If they remove me from the Throne, they are then suddenly free to be at one another's throats. But…" she considers it for a moment.
"But if we can get them to hate one another before then, fire up old grievances, pit them against each other, perhaps they will tear each other apart before they ever even consider King's Landing. And with Robb Stark at The–" her voice dies as she suddenly realises. Cold horror comes over her, and she feels the cold jaws of terror draw closer to her neck. "She freed him, didn't she?"
Qyburn nods. "He and every single Northern prisoner that was held there," he says, crossing the room and pulling out a map from a bookshelf. He spreads it across the desk, and the three of them crowd around it to stare at the map. The Westerlands, nearly ripped from me, she thinks, heart hammering in her chest. No. It cannot happen like this. "Our only hope is that Stark does not choose to bend the knee to her, and she takes The North in force, expending her armies and losing all of theirs in the process."
"And if not?" She asks though she knows the answer.
"Then we are all dead," Jaime replies flatly, his fingers curling into a fist, his golden hand lying limp in his lap. "The assassin that murdered The Freys served, in some capacity that we still do not know, The Starks, we all know that. Everyone here will be next, if they have their way, most likely. We have to cause chaos between The North and The Dragon Queen, so they can be weakened." He looks at her. "We still need The Reach. That way, we can still destabilise her power, somewhat."
She nods along, tapping her finger on Winterfell, continuing for him. "And take Stark's siblings from him. Winterfell will be hard to infiltrate, but there has to be some servant that is bound to turn. The right dose of poison and the whole of The North is gone. Use their tricks against them. They will not see it coming, and then we can sweep in, and make it so Robb Stark loses his home once again."
Jaime runs a hand over his face, that same troubled look in his eyes again. But he says nothing of it, says nothing of what it might just mean, but she remembers, now, how he'd escaped The Starks. Catelyn Stark had set him free, forced him to swear to her, and made him swear to never take up arms against The Starks. But war is coming, and should he choose them over her, over their House…
"They are all Traitors to The Realm," she says finally. "And I will see them branded as such. Begin forming a royal decree. All living Starks, all those sworn to Daenerys, the chief advisors in Winterfell, are to be killed, and any man who gives me their heads will be rewarded. Do not forget those two Greyjoy children, Martell, Tyrell, those from The Vale who have sworn to Stark. I want them gone, no matter what it takes to do so. And…Littlefinger, he is with The Starks, isn't he?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Her lip curls. "See him gone as well. He is a chief concern, as well, given all that he knows and the hands he has in places, the hands we cannot see the full breadth of. Though, here in King's Landing, I want a dedicated effort to root out his spies and disrupt his businesses here. He has always been a man motivated by greed. See to it that he feels the bite of poverty, the shame of his sham empire falling down around him. That, and find what birds from Varys that you still can, what birds still report to him. Kill them all."
"What of the betraying Lords of The Westerlands, Your Grace?" Qyburn says, not even blinking at her order, and the thought of who those little birds are. It will certainly be nasty business, but necessary business as well, to secure her place and keep them all safe. She does her best to ignore the look in Jaime's eyes, the hardness that is growing in them. He is almost looking at her as if she is a stranger, but she knows that he simply does not understand how necessary this all is.
"Find out who these Lords are," she says, taking a sip of her wine before continuing, "And mark them for death, as well. But do not include them by name in the proclamation. I want to keep it to the chief conspirators; the people who gave the most support to the Starks when taking Winterfell, the Targaryen girl's advisors, and those from the Great Houses that have betrayed The Iron Throne for the last time." A thought comes over her, and she smirks. "It would appear we are about to lose the Wardens of The North, East, and South."
Qyburn nods, and then he is gone, not a moment later, likely to assemble The Small Council and see to it that they hopefully start getting things done before the whole Court is utterly alight with gossip and the news of what has happened. Anger rolls through her at the thought of all the whispers that will arise, now, all the stupid fools who will natter on about things. She's already heard what they whisper, and though she cares little for their opinions, the gall of these courtesans is appalling.
"Cersei," Jaime begins to say, voice very careful, very guarded. But he cuts off when she looks at him, ducking his head and looking away, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, looking as if she has caught him between a rock and a hard place. As if she is the one questioning this all now, after all she has done to ensure their future and ensure that they will survive through it all. They will be the ones to land on top, when all is said and done, their opponents being a brood of witless children.
"If you are having doubts about this, Jaime," she says finally, her voice sharp as the blades on The Iron Throne, "Do not voice them. Everything I am doing is for us, for our future. Do you not see that? We are building a future, and to do that, we have to get rid of our enemies. Nothing in this world matters save for you and me, Jaime. We are all that matters, all that I care about."
"You and your throne," he corrects, meeting her eyes. His eyes are green, such a beautiful green. The same green as…as wildfire. As the thing that killed her greatest enemies for her. But there is no kindness in them, no love, just sharp edges and pointed words. She feels her lip curl, and she sits back in her chair, sipping at her wine and never breaking eye contact. "A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep, is that what you are thinking? Is that what runs through your mind as you do this?"
"Do what, Jaime?" She hisses back, and his jaw clenches and twitches. "Don't pretend you are suddenly some saint of virtue. Don't pretend that you are better than me. You have as much blood on your hands as any man in this Realm, and none of them bear the title of Kingslayer. We have all done unpleasant things for our own ends. We are Lannisters. Why should we care what anyone else says?"
"Because we lost The Rock!" Jaime hisses, standing to his feet and glaring down at her. It's an expression she's seen before, but never one directed towards her. She feels herself pause, feels her heart stall in her chest. No. "If we cannot hold our own home, what makes you think you will be able to hold The Iron Throne? Daenerys Targaryen has three dragons. Robb Stark is free, and he beat our father on the open field, over and over again. I remember him well enough. We are in a terrible position, Cersei."
"Then we make it better," she replies flatly, narrowing her eyes at him as he straightens and looks down at her, like he is somehow her better. "Perhaps if you had not wasted your time at The Twins and Riverrun, we would still have The Rock. But we have a chance, now, to take Highgarden while they lie unaware, and cripple that Targaryen girl's armies in one fell swoop. I would get going."
He shakes his head at her, turning out the door without so much as another word. She watches him go, her wine in hand, and her stomach turning over with half a hundred emotions. She wants to tell him to never turn his back on her, to never leave her, order him to stay, just as much as she wants to tell him to get out of her sight. She feels like she barely knows him anymore, barely knows who the man she has shared everything with became during the war and his captivity.
She moves to take another sip of her wine, but the glass is empty, so she slams it down on the desk and stalks back to her quarters to get ready for the day, as the sun streaks gold and red over the horizon. Lannister colours, and there is not a cloud on the horizon, no chance of rain or snow, not today. The city is still hers, and she is the one who sits upon The Iron Throne, she is the one who truly holds the title of Queen. Everyone else is a pretender or a vassal or a traitor or some mix of the three.
Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear. She is beginning to think that maybe that damned witch was wrong. Margaery Tyrell is gone, and though her children have been taken for her, she has something new, now. She has The Iron Throne, and she is the Queen. Her heart aches for her children, so she does not linger on them and their golden shrouds for long, for that is also not befitting of a new queen who is being forced to defend her throne from those who want to steal what she made hers.
She is not a Queen because she is the daughter of The Mad King, because she has three dragons, and the House name of the first person to sit The Iron Throne. She is not a Queen because she was made one by her witless bannermen on the eve of war. She is not a Queen because she is married to The King, not anymore. She is not a Queen because her son is King. She is The Queen because she made herself that, because she put in the work to put herself here, all while every other King or Queen she knows of has been given it by someone else or their birth.
Even Euron Greyjoy is only still King because she allows him to be. The Iron Islands are of little consequence to her and the rest of The Seven Kingdoms, anyway. They've never been more than a band of reapers and ravers, and should things go truly South with the Crow's Eye, she has little doubt that there will be a repeat of The Greyjoy Rebellion, The Siege of Pyke, and all that came of it. The Seven Kingdoms have always been stronger than The Ironborn. She just hopes Euron Greyjoy is smart enough to recall that fact, and that she doesn't have to kill him before it's all over.
She crosses over the map on her way to The Throne Room, and she pauses in the empty courtyard to stare at the map under her feet. Westeros is such a strange place, she's sometimes thought, so spread out and divided, but perhaps the chaos that sews will be to her benefit. Daenerys Targaryen certainly thought herself clever, stealing Casterly Rock, but Cersei doubts she will be feeling half as clever in the end, when her dragons are dead and she is on her knees before Cersei, the True Queen.
Qyburn had said, after all, that he was working on something to repel her three beasts, and there are the rumours of Euron Greyjoy having ties to dark magics from the sundered lands. She would never dare to ask the truth of the strange man, but she would not be opposed to it, should it prove to be true. Honour and dignity are relics of a bygone age, and if she hopes to keep her throne and her crown, she must never let them rule her. They ruled Ned Stark, after all, and look where that got him. Dead in the Stark Crypts, and here Cersei is as well, alive as the day she was born, and sitting on The Iron Throne.
She flexes her hands, and the delicate skin, before continuing to The Throne Room. It is empty as she enters it, and she is grateful for it as she sits on The Iron Throne and feels a nick on her finger. She presses her thumb to her dark skirt, thankful that it is only a small cut and nothing more. A nagging voice in the back of her mind whispers of the rulers who were cut or even killed by this throne, but she dismisses the thoughts from her mind furiously, sitting tall as the first of the Court enters.
They look at her in fear. They always have, and always will. But she does not dissuade them. Fear is a powerful weapon, one that rules men better than anything else ever has. Fear keeps people in line, keeps them away from others, and keeps them right where she wants them to be. She smiles to herself, watching them mull about and whisper amongst themselves, sending her sideways looks when they think she is not looking or cannot see. But she always sees. She knows what they whisper, but let them.
Jaime had thrown their father's words back into her face, like a vicious mockery, but now she is remembering, angry all over again, that he freed Tyrion, that he helped spell their father's death. And now he besmirches his words and the lessons he tried so very hard to get through to him, despite having a daughter who was listening with rapt attention. A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep.
She curls her fingers on The Iron Throne, her heart a hammer in her chest. He walked away from her. Walked away from everything. She'd have expected him to stay and argue but he isn't the man she knew and loved in secret. He has been broken by The Starks and his captivity, and she will do everything she can to make them pay for taking her twin away from her. She squares her shoulders, meeting Qyburn's eyes with a nod as the last of the Court comes in.
She stands, and immediately everyone bows. She feels a rush of energy through her, a rush of delight and pleasure. This is all she ever wanted, and in a way, all her father ever wanted as well. Too bad he could not see the prize he had so close to him, the daughter who did listen, the daughter who took every lesson and really used them. She waits until The Court is done bowing to clear her throat, silencing the hall, making eyes dig into her, everyone hanging onto her every word.
"Daenerys Targaryen has brought an army of Dothraki savages and Unsullied Eunuchs to our shores, an army of foreigners. With these foreigners, and her three monstrous dragons, she has taken one of our cities, and one of the greatest keeps in Westeros. She is a stranger, a foreigner, and she seeks to burn this world down. But I will not have it. I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and it is my duty to defend those kingdoms. I will see her dead before the year's end!"
Scattered cheers from the types who do all that they can to earn her favour. She doesn't doubt that half of them would get on their knees and do whatever she told them to, just for the chance at influence and an ear on her. It amuses her but annoys her all the same. "And what's more, she has recruited Robb Stark to her. A traitor to the realm, and a man who walks with monsters just as much as she. An abomination to the South, The Iron Throne, and all we hold dear. He and all his siblings."
Perhaps a few years ago, she would have mentioned The Faith and some of the rumours surrounding The Young Wolf and his massive dire wolf. Certainly, whatever remains of The Faith of The Seven will spread their own propaganda about the Stark boy and the beast that follows his every step, but she makes no move to do it for them, knowing it will sound wrong from her lips. And anyway, there are more ways to strike fear and discontent into these foolish courtesans' hearts.
"Stark is aided by Sansa Stark, the she-wolf who helped Tyrion Lannister murder my son. Tyrion Lannister, who now advises Daenerys Targaryen as her Hand." That gets scattered murmurs, and she bites back the satisfied smile at how easy it all is, in the end. "And beside her is a bastard born out of wedlock, a Snow who let Wildlings past The Wall, into our realm. All of them are traitors and will be dealt with as such. The Iron Throne has never shown mercy to those who betray it."
Other news had come, through it all, as well, of another Stark in Winterfell, the youngest boy. She cannot recall his name, but she remembers the bumbling toddler she'd glimpsed a handful of times when she visited all those years ago with Robert and his slobbering beast enough to make a mental note to tell Qyburn that she wants him gone as well. She will leave no Starks alive by the end, no matter how nasty it gets.
She has to swallow her tongue and pride a bit for the next part, putting on a nearly sickly sweet voice as she does. These fools must be cajoled and soothed and made to feel important and special if she wants this done. "But it cannot do it without the support of The Lords of Westeros. Many of you are important Bannermen and Lords in your own right. Marshall your armies, gather your sons and prepare to show your loyalty. Every man who does so will be rewarded, once the dust settles and Keeps are left empty for you. Westeros will be reshaped by what we do. The Iron Throne will never be questioned again."
That gets more murmurs going, and she smiles truly then, clasping her hands together before her as she finishes off. "You are thanked for your support and unwavering loyalty. Many have strayed, and all have died. I would hate to have to lose more men to foolish notions." She smiles a little wider, seeing more nervous looks being sent her way. But she is not afraid, has never been, not with the shadow of The Mountain behind her, and The Iron Throne being hers.
"Go home, go to your keeps, and prepare. My brother now rides to take something from this false Queen, just as she stole something from me. We will show them our might. We will show them our power." That gets cheers, and certainly, there is a thread of discontent woven in it, a smidge of fear, but she does not care as she sits again upon The Iron Throne. They are cheering, which means they are too afraid to do anything else, and that is right where she needs them.
She does not need any of their love. She doesn't need to cater to the small folk like Margaery Tyrell did, disparaging herself all for a show of charity. She doesn't need to entertain the witless fools who flutter about and copy her every move and whisper behind her back about every choice she makes. She needs only herself, needs only the assuredness of who she is, and the fact that it is she who sits The Iron Throne. Not Daenerys Targaryen, not Robb Stark, and not Tyrion Lannister or that girl, Sansa Stark.
She was a clever one or was becoming one. She was perhaps, Cersei can admit, someone who was becoming dangerous, but still, she does not fear the little Northern Maid or her tears and her foolishness. She was weak, and will always be weak, no matter how clever she thinks she gets. She wanted to be another Cersei, but she knew even then that the girl was far too foolish and entranced by dreams and notions of better days and the songs of summer to ever have what it takes to be like Cersei. For there is no one like her, anyway.
The rest of the court proceedings pass easily enough, and she finds her mind being strayed from Casterly Rock and Jaime, thankfully enough. This cannot be a setback, she cannot allow Tyrion and that blonde little fool of a girl to make it one. Tyrion has always thought him the cleverest man alive, but she will show him what he is, show him before the end, show him before he dies on his knees, begging for mercy, mercy she will not give, not after all that he has done to her and the house they share.
Soon enough, she is being swept away to another Small Council meeting, one she spends the entirety of clenching her teeth in frustration and near madness and the incompetence she is surrounded with. Of course, that had been intentional in some part, so she would not have a bunch of conspirators and meddling lords around her, but this council is almost making her wish for people like Littlefinger and Varys, because at least they had brains and brought something to the table. The same could not be said for the pack of fools that surround her, though she is glad that Pycelle is finally gone.
At long last, she is freed from the duties of the day. She takes her food in her quarters, but not before having a tester come by and taste all her food. Tyrion shot their father on the privy and killed Joffrey at his wedding; she would not put it past him to kill her in some horrid and indecent way, just to have the last laugh. She will not be felled by simple poison. Once they are gone, she eats slowly, eyes trained on the city that stretches out around her.
The largest city in Westeros has always been the prize of any monarch of The Seven Kingdom's crown. From here, she controls The Blackwater, The Red Keep, and has half a million people living within its walls, barring any vicious conquest. Daenerys Targaryen fashions herself a liberator, a Breaker of Chains, a voice of the common people, not unlike how Margaery made a concerted effort to make a show of helping them. Cersei is interested to see what this so-called Dragon Queen will do when she has to take King's Landing by force, and if the girl even could.
She sips her wine and mulls over it all. Jaime will take Highgarden, kill the two Tyrell boys that live there, and hopefully take Olenna Tyrell with them. But if The Queen of Thorns is not there, Cersei still has ways of reaching her. The loss of Casterly Rock has not chopped her arms off, nor fully dampened their reach. She is the Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. She can find an assassin if she so wants to. Perhaps even a faceless man would do the trick, but…
Her heart sinks as she realises something else. Though she knows The Rock has been barren of gold for years, not everyone knows that. Daenerys Targaryen will have learned, and she does not doubt that whispers will spread soon, whispers of the truth. Not only is The Crown broke, thanks to her bumbling fool of a husband, but so is House Lannister. She thinks of The Iron Bank of Braavos with a frown and takes a long drink from her nearly empty wine glass, troubled.
But there is comfort in knowing that she will take something from this Daenerys Stormborn as well, take something that isn't just a valuable name and a place of some of her best memories. She will steal The Reach from her, and all its crops and its men. Let this girl see how war is really waged, this girl who has lived a life in Essos, who knows nothing of Westeros and its politics, and its Great Houses. Perhaps even that Stark boy will air his grievances out at her in his own bloody way, saving Cersei some time and effort.
(She cut her hand again on The Iron Throne, today. It is longer and deeper than she would like, but she just sips at some Milk of the Poppy and stitches it up herself. Her dresses are already dark in colour with long sleeves, but perhaps she can make it the fashion to hide one's hands behind long sleeves. She's seen plenty of the Ladies of the Court already trying to emulate her sharper cuts, darker colours, and a few bold ones even do the shorter hair.
But, the cut. It hurts, and she stares at it, red and raw and angry, and feels something too similar to doubt for any comfort to settle in her. Doubt that this is all worth it. Doubt that she will keep Jaime, remembering how he looked at her like he also couldn't recognise the woman she'd become. But then she sees her crown, sitting on a stand, glimmering in the candlelight, and the doubts fly away. She is The Queen in her own right. Nothing and no one can hope to deny that she has made this all herself.
So what if The Iron Throne rejects her? Plenty have ruled and been rejected by it. She's certain Robert got cut once or twice on the thing, and it was not made for Kings and Queens and the stray Hand to sit easily upon it.)
Under a week later, her proclamation properly goes out. She reads over it, a smile on her lips as she does so. By order of Cersei of the House Lannister, First of her Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, any man found to be conspiring with the following names will be sentenced to death for treason and sedition. They are all traitors to the realm, and should be brought to King's Landing, dead or alive. Any man who delivers one of these men will be rewarded.
Daenerys Targaryen. Tyrion Lannister. Yara Greyjoy. Theon Greyjoy. Varys the Spider. Olenna Tyrell. Willas Tyrell. Garlan Tyrell. Doran Martell. Arianne Martell. Ellaria Sand. Robb Stark. Jon Snow. Sansa Stark. Rickon Stark. Wyman Manderly. Hother Umber. Alys Karstark. Robert Glover. Yohn Royce. Robin Arryn. Petyr Baelish.
Along with any other chief advisors to Daenerys Targaryen, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, and Jon Snow.
All of them fools, all of them Traitors to The Realm, and all of them will be dead before Winter comes in force to King's Landing if she has any say in it. She nods at Qyburn as he hands it to her, and watches the ravens fly out from The Rookery, black shadows carrying words that will enrage many, but what can they do? What can they hope to do, now?
Two days later, and the news comes about The Sack of Highgarden at long last.
Though Willas and Garlan both escaped, she cannot help but smile in smug and nearly unbecoming pride. While she is frustrated about them letting more people slip from them, there is truly nowhere that a crippled lord and his brother can go without being noticed. And anyway, The Reach thinks The Tyrells are dead, and according to Jaime's raven, many are beginning to bend the knee. Not all of them, and Old Town is as much a problem as ever, but she is satisfied with what they have done.
Again, she goes to the map in the courtyard. Night has fallen, and the only noise beyond the distant noises from the rest of the keep is a single bird singing a lay to the stars. She tunes it out as she lights and torch and encircles a map, once or twice, feeling much like a lioness who is circling her prey. With Highgarden sack, that's one more kingdom that is up in the air, one more place that they will war over. Everyone will be stretched out. But Cersei is ready for it, and at least the Kingdoms she holds are all connected, and severing what parts of Westeros that are held by her enemies in two.
She knows that this will not be an easy war, not in any sense of the word. The North will be difficult, but if she dismantles them from the inside, they will be consumed by Winter, and what does Cersei have to fear from a population of starving fools? Perhaps the Starks were right to warn about Winter, and Cersei is excited to see Winter finally swallow them right back up, showing them that they are not untouchable simply because they are so very old.
Dorne will be the real challenge, she knows. The words of House Martell ring in her mind, Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken, but it comes with the memory of how Oberyn Martell met his end. Any man can be broken, even a Dornishman, even a Martell. Cersei will take great delight in showing the Martells that, take great joy in being the one to make their words a lie. Or perhaps to do what even the Conquerors could not and break Dorne all the while extinguishing House Martell from the board, finally.
They took Myrcella from her. That fact makes her hatred rise up in her, making her vision darken at the edges. Myrcella, the one truly good thing in this world. Jaime had to come home with their daughter's bones, instead of her on his arm, smiling with her golden blonde hair. Apparently, she'd been infatuated with one of the Dornish princes, Trystane, she thinks. Cersei doesn't even think she would have said no to the match, not if it meant finally getting The Martells behind her. But the man they called The Darkstar killed her little girl.
Though she hates them, she is grateful for the bones they sent with Myrcellas. An apology, though they all know it will not undo what has been done, and will not bring her daughter back. She can appreciate that. And she did take joy in watching his corpse burn to dust and ashes, to nothing at all. All this will not stop her, though.
She looks then, to The North, to the realm of Wolves and half-feral Stark pups, and The Wall. What a strange thing to create. What;s even stranger is letting the people that wall was made to bar against pass it, taking them into these lands, her lands. She remembers the Bastard of Winterfell only a little, having glimpsed the boy only once. The only lasting memory she has of Jon Snow is that he looked very much like his Lord Father, but beyond that, she remembers nothing of him. But she knows what he has done. Abandoned oaths, Wildlings south of The Wall, and who knows what else?
She breathes long and deeply, closing her eyes and letting the cool night air rustle her skirts and her hair. The bird is still singing its lay, but when she opens her eyes, there appears to be a few more, perched on the roof, crowing amongst themselves. She feels her lip curl, her eyes rolling at it all. One of them squawks loudly, and she glares at it, only to think, for the briefest moment, that it is looking directly at her.
But then it, along with all its friends, flies away. The other bird has stopped its song, leaving Cersei Lannister in a quiet courtyard, alone save for the reanimated Mountain standing guard in the shadows. Her eyes rover over the map at her feet once again, her heart hammering in her chest. A drop of blood drips down her arm from a cut she got on The Iron Throne before the court came today. She does not see it fall, does not see it splatter on the map. She simply walks away and goes on as usual.
notes:
-my fave problematic girlboss. what a woman. never gonna get over her whole 'tyrion is in the walls' stuff from feast for crows. what a woman. i love cersei. she is so funny. kinda sad were not gonna see her again (from her POV) due to this being a one off, but please know that if it wouldn't cause more months of work for me, tack on ay least five chapters to this already monstrous chapter count, and if my brain didn't seem to give me a 404 everytime i sat down to write this one, despite having plenty of ideas for it, i would write a bijillion words about her.
-cersei lannister: i am tywin lannister reborn! also cersei: kill sansa and jon first, no one can conquer the rock! as we all well know, she was wrong, but this is cersei. ofc shes gonna think that no one can take the rock. shes a lannister. lannisters always win. right? right?
-a lot of the fun in this one was honestly, cersei's arrogance. we know a lot of what she's saying is misinformed, wrong, or unbearably arrogant,,,but its so her? sometimes id be like 'is this overdoing it' but then id think about who she is and how self absored and self-centred she really is and id be like...no yeah this is pretty right. so i got to have SOME fun there, at least.
-for those wanting euron, i plan to have him show up again later, but likely not one on one, and more in a battle sense. I'm honestly not sure how to write him, hence why he never appears on page in this chapter and is only mentioned.
next up, robb hates everyone but grey wind and his bannermen (kinda. it's a little complicated)