c17 People in the Red Keep
"Seven hells, are those damned Free Cities nobles so idle? Why do they keep meddling with that beggar king?"
After seeing off Illyrio Mopatis, Varys, the Master of Whisperers, was promptly summoned to the solar where King Robert Baratheon was resting with his wine.
Today was particularly unlucky. Varys knew the king had returned empty-handed from a hunt beyond the Kingswood, foul-tempered and irritated. It was never wise to bring bad news on such a day but the king had commanded before he rode out that he expected a full report upon his return, so Varys had no choice but to deliver.
Inside the solar, there were only three people: King Robert Baratheon, who sat drinking heavily; Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, known as "Barristan the Bold," standing silently nearby; and Varys, who moved with careful deference.
King Robert, seated on a heavy oaken chair beside a small round table, was once tall and broad-shouldered, a fearsome warrior who had broken Prince Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident. Now he had grown bloated with drink and gluttony, his immense girth pressing against his ornate doublet. His once-handsome face was buried beneath a thick, unkempt black beard, his hair greasy and thinning, his blue eyes sunken and ringed with shadows, filled now only with anger and bitterness.
Ser Barristan stood like a living statue beside him, clad in the white plate and cloak of the Kingsguard. His armor gleamed under the light, traced with silver filigree in the seven-pointed star patterns of the Faith of the Seven. Though his posture remained proud and unbowed, his hair had turned to snow, and his lined face betrayed the march of years.
Varys, on the other side, had resumed his familiar appearance: bald, plump, and painted with faint powder and rouge to cover his pallor. He wore voluminous robes of rich fabric turquoise and yellow silk embroidered with dragons and roses and carried with him the cloying scent of sweet oils. He bent slightly at the waist, keeping his voice soft and submissive, presenting himself as the court eunuch should: humble and harmless.
But Robert was not truly seeking answers he was venting frustration.
"Find out who is stirring the pot this damned cabal of merchants and lords," the king slurred, taking another enormous gulp from his silver goblet, his breath stinking of Arbor gold. "Didn't they say the Targaryen whelps were fleeing farther and farther? Isn't Pentos too damn close for comfort?"
For years, the surviving Targaryens the beggar king Viserys and his little sister Daenerys had moved from Braavos to Myr, then to Tyrosh, drifting ever farther east, from Lys to Qohor, even whispered to have considered Volantis. Robert had prayed they would vanish into the shadows beyond Asshai-by-the-Shadow, never to trouble him again. Yet now they had returned to Pentos, far too near the Narrow Sea for his liking.
As Robert drank, wine spilled down into his thick beard. He cursed and wiped at it, but succeeded only in soaking his velvet tunic. The wet patch spread across his belly like a spreading stain of shame. Roaring in frustration, he hurled the goblet across the room, where it clattered noisily against a wall.
"Seven bloody hells!" he bellowed, though whether at the wine, the Targaryens, or the fates themselves, none could say.
Before either Varys or Ser Barristan could offer a word, the king buried his face in one meaty hand, groaned, and waved them off with a weary gesture.
"Get out," he mumbled.
Neither man protested.
The king was deep into his cups.
"As you command, Your Grace," Varys murmured, bowing deeply. He inclined his head briefly to Ser Barristan, then shuffled away in his usual mincing steps, his silken robes whispering against the stone floor.
Ser Barristan watched the eunuch's retreat with a disapproving eye before speaking.
"Your Grace," he said at last.
As Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the king with body and soul, Barristan was privy to many secrets. Yet it chafed against his sense of honor that the king had confided in Varys a man whose reputation was marred by whispers of dark arts and treachery without consulting Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King. Barristan believed such matters, involving plots across the Narrow Sea against the so-called beggar king and his sister, ought to be handled with nobility and in the light of council, not hidden in secret machinations.
Still, he understood Robert's reasons well enough. The Hand, old and principled, would surely have urged restraint, just as Barristan now found himself yearning to do and Robert had no patience left for lectures.
But before Ser Barristan could voice his concerns, King Robert Baratheon raised a heavy hand, palm hovering midair: "Let me be quiet for a while, Barristan." His voice was thick with weariness, and his words, though slurred, carried a certain finality. The king seemed lost in some melancholy reverie, a rare vulnerability surfacing behind the bluster and the drink. Barristan had no choice but to obey the king's will and held his tongue.
Barristan stood silently at his post, keeping a dutiful watch over his sovereign, until Robert's loud, rumbling snores filled the solar. Only then did he step carefully toward the door, signaling to the white-cloaked guards stationed outside. In a low voice, he ordered, "Fetch Ser Jaime."
It did not take long. Jaime Lannister soon appeared, clad in the white armor of the Kingsguard, his golden hair flowing to his shoulders, his face the very image of handsome arrogance. "You sent for me, Ser Barristan?"
Barristan gave a curt nod. "Yes. Go and ask the queen to come. She must bring His Grace back to his chambers."
Jaime arched an elegant eyebrow, a half-smirk playing on his lips. "Drunk again, is he?" he asked, his tone dry. "I make no promises the queen will comply."
Barristan replied gravely, "Just deliver the message. I'll await your report here."
Jaime bowed lightly more out of courtesy than true respect then straightened, adjusted his white cloak, and strode away toward the royal apartments with the casual grace of a lion at ease in his den.
When Jaime arrived, he found Queen Cersei Lannister seated by a large arched window overlooking the Red Keep's gardens. She was lounging with practiced elegance, bored and restless. Her gown, embroidered with gold lions on crimson silk, shimmered in the candlelight. The tournament for Prince Joffrey's nameday was soon approaching, and the royal court was swelling with lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms. King Robert was too entangled with his hunts and revels to care for such matters, leaving the burdens of courtly duties and hosting the visiting nobles to the queen.
Cersei Lannister the golden queen bore all the hallmarks of House Lannister: cascading golden curls, bright green eyes, and a slender, commanding figure. Though she had borne three royal children, her beauty, touched faintly by the passage of time, remained the envy of the realm.
Jaime Lannister, her twin brother, shared her face as much as her blood, and unlike others, he could enter her presence without the need for formalities.
The queen idly lifted her goblet of wine, signaling to a maid nearby. The girl promptly refilled it without a word. Cersei raised the cup toward Jaime, her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. "You came at just the right moment. Sit. Drink with me."
A flicker of something passed through Jaime's eyes, but he kept his composure. He stood straight, his tone formal. "Ser Barristan sent me, Your Grace. He bids you come to fetch His Majesty back to his chambers."
Cersei let out a short, sharp laugh. "The king drunk again? How surprising." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "And you expect me to drag him from his stupor?"
Jaime answered evenly, "He is incapable of returning on his own."
The queen's eyes gleamed with contempt. "Let him rot where he lies," she said. She raised her goblet again, swirling the dark red Arbor wine within. "I swear, the king would rather soil himself drunk in the corridors than crawl into my bed."
At these scandalous words, the maids stiffened in horror. But before any whispers could start, Jaime intervened with practiced ease. He coughed lightly, giving the girls a pointed look. "You heard nothing," he said smoothly. "Leave us."
The serving girls curtsied low and fled the room as if wolves had been loosed among them.
Cersei rose from her chair, her movements sinuous and deliberate. She sauntered over to Jaime, holding her goblet out to him, the gold rings on her fingers catching the candlelight. Her voice softened to a command. "Drink."
Jaime, though momentarily torn between duty and desire, obeyed her as he always did. He drank deeply from her offered goblet.
When he handed it back, he spoke again, voice taut. "The king is waiting. Ser Barristan expects a report."
Cersei's laughter was low and mocking. With a coy smile, she traced a single finger down Jaime's cheek, wiping a stray drop of wine from the corner of his mouth. Her touch lingered longer than necessary. "The queen is waiting for her report too," she whispered.
Jaime's breath caught in his throat. It took all his considerable willpower to step back, to resist the pull of her nearness. Without another word, he turned and strode swiftly from the queen's chambers, his heart pounding in his ears.
He had a report to deliver and more reasons than ever to leave quickly.
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