Chapter 17: Cersei II

A knight of the Kingsguard was always posted outside the doors of the council chambers when the Small Council was in session. Today it was Ser Loras Tyrell.

"Ser Loras," the Queen said pleasantly, "you look quite grey. Did something happen, perchance?"

The news of his defeat had spread far and wide - especially as it was learned that he was struck down whilst distracted by a woman. The same woman who had supposedly beaten him at one of Renly's fool tourneys, and who had now been made a knight, or a dame as the King liked to call it. Not quite the pimples I was hoping for, but still a humbling. Loras hated the mention of his loss. His face quivered slightly at her allusion to it. Truly, Cersei had been sorry to miss it when she had heard.

It was the first bit of good news she had gotten in a long while.

As fond of Osmund as she may have once been, she was fonder of him now. Even if he did at times seem as slow as Robert. Mayhaps I will offer him more than a hint and a smile...

The councillors quieted as she entered the room. It was crowded, she noticed, with nearly more people than the table could afford to seat, many sat with their arms touching. Lord Mace's fat face split into a smile, and he offered his greeting to her, loud enough to wake Pycelle from his slumber. The others rose, mouthing pleasantries. Cersei allowed herself the faintest of smiles, "My lords, may I ask where the King and his Hand are?"

Behind her, the doors swung open and her son confidently strode in, "Just a small delay, Mother. Nothing to fret over."

He claimed his seat as Lord Tywin made to sit at the opposite end of the table. He offered all the table a small smile and gestured for them all to sit with his hands. Cersei followed, claiming the seat of honour to his right, only to be thwarted as Tyrion hopped up onto the seat to his left, shooting her a vicious little grin as he did so.

Cersei looked around with hidden disgust at the table. My councillors. Were she to have any say in it, she would have had all the roses uprooted from the council post-haste. Tyrion as well would be gone. Instead, her son had only invited more in. Not only did she have to tolerate Lord Mace, but also Lords Mathis and Randyll. Lord Paxter was mercifully still absent alongside Garlan Tyrell, seeing to the siege of Dragonstone.

And then there were the newest arrivals of the lot. Prince Oberyn sat next to his niece, the harlot more undressed than dressed. Some of the lords wanted her, she could tell. Men had been looking at her that way since her breasts had began to bud. Because I was so beautiful, they said, but Jaime was beautiful as well, and they never looked at him that way. When she was small she would sometimes don her brother's clothing as a lark. She was startled by how differently men treated her when they thought she was Jaime. Even Lord Tywin himself...

Cersei clenched her fists at the boldness of the girl, though thankfully Tommen seemed to ignore her presence in it's entirety.

"Do we have wine?" the Queen asked.

Tommen frowned as one of the lords was about to offer her some, and interrupted them, "No, Mother, we do not. Not in these chambers, at any rate."

The Queen's mood only soured further, "I see."

"Grandmaester," the King began, "I hear we have received a letter from the Vale?"

"We have, Your Grace." Pycelle plucked it from his pile of papers and smoothed it out. "It is a declaration, rather than a letter. Signed at Runestone by Bronze Yohn Royce, Lord Waynwood, Lords Hunter, Redfort, and Belmore, and Symond Templeton, the Knight of the Ninestars. All have affixed their seals. They write-"

They write a deal of rubbish, Cersei thought. Evidently, the King cared to disagree, "They write that they mean to remove Littlefinger as Lord of the Vale, forcibly if need be. Yes?"

"Yes," Pycelle nodded, uncertain.

The King tapped the table with his wedding ring once, "Does Lord Baelish seek our help?"

"Not as yet," Pycelle said. "In truth, he seems quite unconcerned. His last letter mentions the rebels only briefly before beseeching me to ship him some old tapestries of Robert's."

Unconcerned, Cersei thought. When I get my hands on him...

The King tapped the table again, "And these lords of the declaration, do they appeal to the King to take a hand?"

"They do not."

The King tapped the table one last time, "How long would it take to send a raven from here to Runestone, Grandmaester?"

Pycelle frowned, "Mayhaps between three or four days, Your Grace. Assuming the weather is fair."

Tommen nodded and reached down, withdrawing a letter which he then reached over and handed to the Grandmaester, "Have this sent to Runestone. Do not open or read it, Grandmaester, I will know."

There was an undercurrent of steel in her son's voice, and Pycelle nodded again nervously.

"And the contents of the letter?" Tywin asked.

"What we had discussed, my Lord Hand," Tommen answered. "Surely you remember?"

"And a letter will be sufficient?"

"Place your faith in me, my lord. You did it before, and your faith was rewarded then, was it not? I'll not misstep now."

"Hmm."

Cersei gazed at her father, and then at her son. The looks they shared. There was a certain sense of unease, of subtle wariness about her father that he had not had before. Does he know? Of all the people Tommen could have told, her father would have been the wisest choice, she would admit.

"Might we discuss the fleet?" Lord Mace asked. "Fewer than a dozen ships survived the inferno on the Blackwater. The crown must restore it's strength at sea."

The King frowned, "Truly? I was under the impression that much of our strength was yet laying siege to Dragonstone."

Ah, Cersei resisted the urge to smile. The Fat Flower resents one of his vassals being raised up over him. Whether the effect of her son's decision had been intentional or not, she could not deny it's wisdom. The less power the roses have the better.

"Well..." Lord Mace struggled to find the words. "Of course it is, Your Grace. Yet strength at sea is most essential. And it is not wise to leave so much strength in the hands of one house."

"Are the Redwynes not loyal?" the King innocently asked. "Has some fresh treason been discovered, my lord?"

"No, Your Grace," Mace spluttered. "But it is not prudent-"

"Ah, yes. I see," the King tapped his ring again. "Wise words, my lord."

"Could we make use of the Ironmen?" she suggested. "The enemy of our enemy? What would the Seastone Chair want of us as the price of an alliance?"

"They want the North," her father said. "Which I have promised to House Bolton."

It was as much a reminder to the King as it was a rebuke of her suggestion.

"How inconvenient," she said. "Yet surely the North is large. The lands could be divided. It need not be a permanent arrangement. Bolton might consent, so long as we assure him that our strength will be his once Stannis is destroyed."

"Balon Greyjoy is dead, I had heard," said Pycelle.

"Do we know who rules the Isles now?" Lord Rowan asked. "Leo, Theo?"

"Theon Greyjoy was raised at Winterfell, a ward of Eddard Stark," Tywin said. "He is not like as to be a friend of ours."

"I heard he was slain," Lord Mace said.

Varys would have known, Cersei thought with some irritation. "It matters not," Tyrion said. "Forming an alliance with the Greyjoys is like trusting a pirate to guard your treasure. They may claim loyalty today, but tomorrow they'll be off plundering and pillaging with whomever can offer them better terms. Mark my words, they are not to be trusted."

"True enough, Uncle," Tommen agreed. "Yet it is Balon who was the untrustworthy one. Lord Quellon was considered wise for his time, was he not? I believe my mother is right, and that some of the Greyjoys may be reasoned with now that Lord Balon has passed."

Cersei preened at the compliment. "It's risky," Tyrion warned.

Tommen nodded, "As are all things." He reached down and withdrew another letter, handing it over to Pycelle, "Send this to Harlaw, Grandmaester. As before, you are not to open or read it."

Cersei ceased her preening. He is leading a mummers farce, she realised. All our counsel he has heard before, in his dreams.

Pycelle nodded again and Tommen turned to face Tyrion, "So, Uncle, how fares our vaults?"

Tyrion cleared his throat, "Well enough, Your Grace. After Lord Mace's rather generous dowry," Lord Mace seemed all too happy with himself, "we find ourselves quite comfortable."

"And our incomes?"

Tyrion sighed, "Our incomes have never been greater. And yet we have too many gold cloaks and too little gold. Though large, the crown's incomes are not enough to keep abreast of your father's debts."

"So we will have to renegotiate those debts, no?" Tommen said. "Starting with the Iron Bank."

"The Braavosi have a saying," Lord Tywin cut in. "The Iron Bank will have it's due."

"That they will," Tommen agreed.

"Yet surely we can come to some arrangement," Cersei added, eager to have her voice heard. "There must be someone at the Iron Bank we can speak to, come to some arrangement."

"The Iron Bank is the Iron Bank," Lord Tywin said. "There is no someone."

Cersei frowned, "But someone does work there, it is comprised of people."

"And a temple is comprised of stones. One stone crumbles and another takes it's place and the temple holds it's form for a thousand years or more. And that's what the Iron Bank is: a temple. We all live in it's shadow, and almost none of us know it," he declared. "You can't run from them, you can't cheat them, you can't sway them with excuses. If you owe them coin and you don't want to crumble yourself, you pay it back."

Tommen smiled a knowing smile and turned back to Tyrion, "I want you to arrange the purchase of ten-thousand dragons worth of Iron Bank shares, Uncle. Even if it does not give me leverage, it will pay dividends after enough time, no doubt. Make whatever arrangements you think necessary."

"A substantial sum..." Tyrion glanced at Lord Tywin for approval and then saw the look on Tommen's face and nodded, "I will see it done, Your Grace."

Pycelle shuffled through some more papers at the ensuing silence, "The next matter... we have had a letter from Lord Frey putting forth some claims..."

"How many lands and honours does the man want?" snapped the Queen. "His mother must have had three teats."

"You may not know," Oberyn finally spoke up with a small smirk, "but in the brothels and winesinks of the city, there are those who suggest that the crown may have been somehow complicit in Lord Walder's crime."

His words were incendiary, and all the lords shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Cersei was merely thankful it would be his last day on the council. "Do you mean the Red Wedding?" Tommen asked.

Pycelle cleared his throat noisily, "These sparrows are especially outspoken," he warned. "The Red Wedding was an affront to all the laws of gods and men, they say, and those who had a hand in it are damned."

Cersei was not slow to take on his meaning, "Lord Walder must soon face the Father's judgement. He is very old. Let the sparrows spit on his memory. It has nought to do with us."

"No," said Lord Mathis.

"No," said Lord Mace.

"No one could thinks so," Pycelle agreed.

"A little spittle on his grave is not like to disturb it," Tommen agreed. "But I think he ought to be punished for such a heinous deed. A few of the Frey heads that partook in the Red Wedding should suffice, when the time comes."

"Lord Walder would never sacrifice his own," said Pycelle.

"He will not have much choice in the matter," Tommen said. "But that is a matter for another day. For the meantime, we allow the people to say what they will about him. And whilst we await his funeral, I must ask how the planting is going. Lord Mathis?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," he answered. Lord Mathis had been made Tommen's Master of Works, an appointment she objected to, for he was surely another hidden rose, but Tommen had again refused her counsel. "You will be pleased to know that many of the Lords have accepted your proposal, and the shipments of seeds for planting have begun in earnest all across the Crownlands, Westerlands and parts of the Riverlands and Stormlands."

"All winter crops or crops that may grow fast enough to be harvested before winter, yes?"

"Aye, Your Grace. Mostly breeds of winter wheat, corn and some potatoes as well. And animals. Breeding pairs of black-nosed sheep and haired cattle have been procured and sent to the Riverlands, to the lords with marginal lands not yet under the plow for meat, milk and wool. They're hardy enough to survive in the winter snows."

"I am gladdened to hear it, my lord. I pray we can avoid a famine," Tommen said. A fool errand, Cersei thought. We ought to let the more quarrelsome sheep starve, not pay for their meals. "And the construction?" he continued.

"The walls are near completely repaired, and the Mud Gate is being rebuilt. And the storehouses you ordered are nearing completion."

"Remarkably fast, my lord," Tommen commented with a frown.

"We are only repurposing old buildings, Your Grace," Lord Mathis explained. "It is easier than building anew. And with so little in the way of crime or rioting to interrupt the works, they have been running remarkably smoothly as of late."

"I am gladdened to hear it, my lord," Tommen said. "Ser Bronn, I take it the reason for this is that you have been successful in your reforms to the gold cloaks?"

"Aye," he grumbled. "Gold cloaks must all report any bribes they receive, and accept any they are offered. Anyone offering a bribe is to be lashed on their first offense, and sent to the Wall on their second. Any gold cloak who accepts a bribe and does not report it is to be sent to the Wall. Any gold cloak who sol-sol-"

"Solicits," the King provided.

"Aye. Any gold cloak who solicits a bribe is to be sent to the Wall. All known thieves, murderers, rapists are to be sent to the Wall."

"And the new recruits?"

"Training," Bronn answered tiredly. "All city boys."

"Excellent work, Ser," Tommen smiled. "So much so, I think the time has come for you to enjoy some rest. Travel up to Stokeworth, Ser. Your betrothed, the lovely Lady Lollys, awaits you. Select one of your lieutenants to serve in your stead till you return."

Cersei straightened in her seat at the news. Bronn had kept his distance from her as best he could, but perhaps his lieutenant might be different. This would present some interesting possibilities.

"I will, Yer Grace," Bronn nodded.

"Speaking of the Wall," Pycelle broke in, "another problem has arisen. The brothers of the Nights Watch have taken leave of their wits and chosen Ned Stark's bastard son to be their Lord Commander."

"I glimpsed him once at Winterfell," she said, "though the Starks did their best to hide him. He looks very like his father." Her late husband's by-blows had his look as well, though at least Robert had had the grace to keep them out of sight. Once, after that sorry business with Joffrey and the cat, he'd made some noise about bringing his baseborn daughter to court. "Do as you please," she'd told him, "but you may find the city is not a healthy place for a growing girl."

The bruise those words had won her had been hard to hide from Jaime, but they heard no more about the bastard girl. Catelyn Tully was a mouse, or she would have smothered Jon Snow in his cradle. Instead she's left the filthy task to me. "Snow shares Lord Eddard's taste for treason too," she said. "The father would have handed the realm to Stannis. The son has given him lands and castles."

"The Night's Watch is sworn to take no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms," Pycelle reminded them. "For thousands of years the black brothers have upheld that tradition."

"Until now," Cersei said. "The bastard boy has written to us to avow that the Night's Watch takes no side, but his actions give the lie to his words. He has given Stannis food and shelter, yet has the insolence to plead with us for arms and men."

"An outrage," declared Lord Mace. "We cannot allow the Night's Watch to join it's strength to that of Lord Stannis. We must declare this Snow a traitor and rebel. The black brothers must remove him."

"No," the King cut in, his tone firm. "I'll not make another enemy by rushing to judge a boy just for his blood. Snow may have Stark blood in his veins, but if I recall correctly he joined the Watch of his own free will."

"Yet he has offered your enemy food and shelter," Cersei reminded him.

"He offered my uncle food and shelter," Tommen shot back. "And if I recall correctly, we received letters from Lord Commander Mormont asking for aid, and yet we did not respond. So long as he offers my uncle no more than food and shelter, I will not begrudge the Lord Commander his desperation. In fact, I should seek to provide as much aid as he requires, if only to prevent my Uncle Stannis doing as we fear."

"A ploy," Lord Tywin cut in. "Yet a foolish one. You have no assurances. So long as Stannis remains at the Wall, the loyalty of the black brothers he will be able to compel. You would be better sending a hundred men to the Watch. To take the black, ostensibly, but in truth..."

"... to remove Jon Snow from command," Cersei finished, laughing. If this bastard boy truly is his father's son, he will not suspect a thing. Perhaps he will even thank me, before the blade slides between his ribs.

"Oh," Tommen smiled. "But I have assurances, Grandfather. Or have you forgotten?" Tywin considered his grandson's words for a moments and then nodded wordlessly with approval. Cersei frowned. What assurances? Tommen reached down and withdrew another letter and passed it over to Pycelle, who by this point was becoming quite flustered by the sheer volume of letters the King seemed to have at the ready, "Send this to the Wall, Grandmaester. As before, you are not to open or read it."

"Of course, Your Grace," he said as he accepted the letter. "Yet if Lord Janos can be believed, Lord Stannis is trying to make common cause with the wildlings."

"Savages in skins," Lord Mace declared. "Lord Stannis must be desperate indeed, to seek such allies."

"Desperate and foolish," she agreed. "The Northmen hate the wildlings. Roose Bolton should have no trouble winning them to our cause. A few have already joined up with the bastard son to help him clear the Ironmen from Moat Cailin and clear the way for Lord Bolton. Umber, Ryswell... I forgot the names. Even White Harbour is on the point of joining us. It's lord is on the verge of wedding his daughters to lords of our choosing and opening his ports to our ships."

"Wyman Manderly was a loyal bannerman to Ned Stark," Pycelle warned. "Can such a man be trusted?"

No one can be trusted. "He's fat, old and frightened. He is proving stubborn on only one point. He insists that he will not bend the knee till his heir has been returned to him."

"Do we have this heir?" Lord Mace asked.

"He will be at Harrenhall, if he is still alive," Cersei said. "Gregor Clegane took him captive. If he is dead, I suppose we must send him the heads of those who killed him, with our most sincere apologies."

"Will not Lord Stannis seek to win the allegiance of White Harbour as well?" Pycelle asked.

"Oh, he has tried," Tommen answered. "Lord Manderly has sent his letters onto us and replied with evasions. Lord Stannis demands White Harbour's swords and silvers and offers nothing in return. Just this morning there was another bird. He has sent his Hand, Ser Davos, to treat with White Harbour on his behalf. Manderly has placed the man in a cell. He asks what we should do to him."

"Let him die," she said. "His death will be a lesson to the North, to show them what becomes of traitors."

"Have him sent here, for questioning," Tyrion suggested instead. "The man might know much of value."

Tommen nodded, "I quite agree, Uncle." He reached down, and withdrew one final letter, passing it on to Pycelle, "I already have written a response. To White Harbour, Grandmaester. You know what else I will ask."

Pycelle nodded, "Not to open or read it, Your Grace."

Tommen nodded as Lord Mace voiced his concerns, "What if Lord Manderly should refuse?"

"He may well do," Tommen said. "But he risks his own son's life in doing so. And even in letters, I happen to be quite... persuasive. I may yet be wrong, but I do not believe he would refuse."

"Very good, Your Grace."

"We have done good work today, my lords," Tommen said. "I thank you. Is there aught else?"

The lords all looked around at each other. "Only the matters of who is to be the new Master of Whispers, and the new members of the Kingsguard, after the tragic passing of Ser Boros," Pycelle said.

"And the matter of Lord Bolton," Lord Tywin added, his tone stern and unforgiving. He may have taken a passive role till now, but this was an issue on which he would budge no longer.

Tommen sighed and tapped the table again with his ring, "Very well, then. Give me the sheaf that names Lord Bolton my Warden of the North."

Pycelle handed it to him, and Tywin continued, "And the decree of legitimacy?"

After a moment's thought, Tommen shook his head, "No." He stood from his chair, offering no explanation for his rejection, tapping his ring twice on the table with his knuckles to signal that the council was over, "If that is all, my lords, then I will declare this meeting of the Small Council finished. You are all dismissed. Bronn, be sure to escort the Grandmaester to the rookery, to have those letters sent immediately."

Bronn nodded, and Pycelle left on shuffling feet, his back hunched under the weight of the myriad links on the chain around his neck.

Tommen stood waiting with his grip tight on the back of his chair as all the remaining lords stood from their seats and filed out of the room.

Cersei watched her son out of the corner of her eyes as she left.

He stands alone.

No, still not back yet.
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P.S. May be subject to a rewrite in the future