White Harbor was not what she had expected.
When first they had ridden through the gates a week past, she had braced herself for a city befitting the north snow-choked alleys, the stink of dung and salted fish, smallfolk in furs with mud on their boots and dullness in their eyes. The north was meant to be a place of howling winds and frozen brutes, forever gnawing on pig bones by the fire. Yet here the Manderlys had raised a city of white marble.
It irked her, the beauty of it. The north was supposed to be savage, beneath her, yet White Harbor gleamed like some courtly dream. A lesser woman might have felt awe. Cersei felt only suspicion. The Manderlys had made themselves too grand by half. A city such as this spoke of ambition, of pretensions to power. A warning disguised in stone and splendor.
She stood upon the balcony of her solar, the gold of her gown bright against the pale stone, her hair caught in the morning light like a crown spun from fire. Below, the courtyard hummed with preparation, the stamping of hooves, the shouts of men-at-arms. The royal party would ride for Winterfell before noon, and not a moment too soon.
The city had held them too long. Robert had drunk himself half to death on Manderly mead, bellowing with delight through every feast, every foolish game they devised to please him. He had roared loudest during the naval parade, fat hands clapping as if he had won the battle himself.
Even the absurd contests, the ball with feet and the one with nets had pleased him most. Robert had demanded more rounds, more noise, more cups, and the Manderlys had obliged, their coffers spilling open like a whore's thighs before a king.
Jaime had played in those games. She had watched him from her seat beside Robert, watched her golden brother as he leapt and struck, like a lion at play. He was never more beautiful than when in motion, graceful, quick, strength coiled in every limb. Her mirror made flesh, the other half of her soul. How the smallfolk had cheered him.
The plays had surprised her most. She had expected crude jests and mummers' farce, yet the amphitheater filled with song and pageant, with actors from across the world. One Lyseni woman with dark purple eyes had played Rhaenyra Targaryen with such fire that Cersei had felt tears hot upon her cheeks when the curtain fell. She had wept alone in her chamber, not for Rhaenyra, no, but for the crown that should have been hers. That she herself had once dreamed of wearing, before her father had given her to Robert like a mare sold at market.
Arthur Manderly was behind it all. Young and strong, too handsome by half. He troubled her more than the rest, with his silver-blonde hair and blue-green eyes. His measured courtesy and flawless smile. He had looked at her once during the feast. His eyes had lingered for the briefest moment, cool and knowing. And then the boy inclined his head with perfect deference, his lips barely smiling. A challenge she knew.
Too clever to flatter. Too clever to betray his desires. Yet she knew what he wanted, what every man wanted. He plays a dangerous game, she thought. Perhaps it was for the best that they were leaving. Civilization or not, White Harbor had challenged her. And Cersei did not like to be challenged. Not by cities, and certainly not by men.
A knock came at the door.
Her maid slipped in, eyes downcast. "Your Grace, breakfast is prepared. Ser Jaime and the princes are waiting below."
She turned from the balcony. "Very well," she said. "Fetch Myrcella. Dress her in the green silk, with the golden brooch. I will not have her look like some northern savage."
Cersei sat at the head of the long breakfast table, her fingers curled around a goblet of mulled wine. Steam curled upward, the scent of cloves and cinnamon sharp in her nose, its warmth seeping into her hands. Across from her, Jaime sprawled with the lazy grace of a lion at rest, tearing at a honeyed roll with more enthusiasm than decorum, crumbs clinging to the stubble along his jaw.
Tommen blinked sleepily at her side, his golden hair tousled, his eyes half-lidded as he pushed food about his plate. Beside him Myrcella nibbled daintily at a slice of pear, her manners flawless. Cersei's heart swelled at the sight of her daughter, so pretty and poised, the very image of a princess.
Across from them sat Joffrey, wolfing down bacon and bread with the vulgar appetite of a sellsword. He was his father's son in that, though far fairer to look upon, a king in the making if she could scour away Robert's coarseness.
"Robert still sleeps," Cersei said coldly, her voice clipped as a knife. "Drank himself stupid again."
"Isn't that what he does best?" Jaime said through a mouthful, lazy amusement glinting in his eyes.
"He's celebrating as a king should," Joffrey interjected sharply. "The Manderlys have given us feasts and games for a week. Just as we deserve."
Cersei sniffed, disdain curling her lip. "A marble mask upon a pig does not change what they are."
Before her son could retort, the door creaked open. In waddled Tyrion, small and twisted, his mismatched eyes too alert for so early an hour. His limp was more pronounced than usual, a gift of last night's debauchery, yet he climbed into a tall chair with practiced ease and helped himself to a platter of smoked fish.
"Good morrow, beloved siblings," he drawled, his eyes flicking from her to Jaime, twinkling with insolence. "And the lion cubs, of course. Where hides our king?"
"Still abed," Cersei said. "Where else?"
"So, as ever." Tyrion reached for a plate of ham, his stubby fingers working nimbly. "Then we linger till the great stag rolls himself from his sty?"
"Yes," she answered sharply.
"Ah, then we have time." He poured himself a cup of pale honeywine and drank deep. "Perhaps even time for another tour of this intriguing city."
Jaime sipped from his own cup. "It's only a few days' ride. Not long, even with frozen roads."
"A shame, truly." Tyrion toyed with a slice of ham, his voice lazy, but his eyes calculating. "White Harbor has its charms. The ships, the markets, the plays. One might almost imagine oneself across the sea."
Cersei arched a brow. "A northern swamp wrapped in stone? Your tastes grow stranger by the day. Perhaps you've found your match among the fishmongers."
Joffrey snorted. "He can marry one of the ugly mermaids and stay here forever."
Tyrion smiled wryly. "Your grandsire might agree. He respects power, and the Manderlys have gathered no small measure of it."
Cersei scoffed, her voice sharp. "They are still Stark's dogs. No feast, no fleet, no painted marble walls can wash out the stink of savagery from their halls."
"Such eloquence, dear sister." Tyrion chuckled. "Savages, perhaps, but clever ones. The Manderlys are no mere bannermen. They never were, not really. Their blood once mingled with Oldtown's Hightowers and the Gardeners. A proud lineage, and not one easily forgotten. And their city is no crude outpost."
Jaime leaned forward. "You think they're that important?"
"I think they're ambitious," Tyrion replied, his mismatched eyes alight with amusement, or perhaps calculation. "And ambition can make even the smallest house dangerous. Arthur Manderly is young, and yet he builds fleets, dispenses justice with a steady hand, and raises academies of learning. Few lords can boast such things."
Cersei frowned, her fingers tightening around her goblet. "A book is not a sword. Let him play in the snow. No bannerman of Stark will ever rival House Lannister."
Tyrion gave her a wretched, lazy smile, the one that always set her teeth on edge. "Our father might disagree. He respects strength above all, and whether you choose to see it or not, the Manderlys grow stronger with each passing year."
At that moment, a servant entered the solar, head bowed, hands clasped tight before him. "My Queen," he murmured, eyes fixed upon the floor. "The King is awake. His Grace has called for the horses to be readied."
Cersei allowed herself a thin smile, all teeth and no warmth. "Very well. We ride for Winterfell."
The chill clung to her furs like a jealous lover, worming its way beneath silk and velvet no matter how tightly she drew the mantle. Cersei stood beside the royal palanquin, her gloved fingers firm upon Myrcella's shoulder, as the gates of the castle yawned wide before them.
The Manderlys had gathered in a gaudy sea of blue and green, banners snapping in the wind. At their center squatted Lord Wyman, swollen with fat, his velvet straining across his chest, his cheeks red and glistening. A bloated toad, she thought, perched on his wheeled chair like some grotesque idol borne upon the shoulders of six sweating retainers. He bowed his heavy head before Robert, jowls quivering.
"Your Grace," Wyman said, his voice thick and syrupy as spilled honey. "White Harbor is ever your friend, and House Manderly your most loyal vassal. May your journey be swift, and your stay in Winterfell warm."
Robert reeked faintly of wine despite the bath she had forced upon him. He laughed, clapping Wyman's shoulder. "I'll miss your food, Wyman, and your ale most of all. Seven hells, you drink like bears."
"I shall send a cask to Winterfell, Your Grace. Perhaps two," the fat lord promised.
Cersei did not miss the look that passed between them, their bellies full and their tongues oiled with drink, pretending that roasted boar and shared laughter bound kingdoms together. The sight turned her stomach. A king should command, not carouse.
Then came the grandson.
Arthur Manderly stepped forward, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair pale as frost, his face far too pretty for the north. He wore a rich black doublet beneath a mantle of heavy fur, clasped with silver wrought in the shape of a trident. At his hip hung the sword, their sword, Valyrian steel glinting darkly. Nightfall. It should have been Jaime's, not gifted away by Robert's drunken largesse to a northern whelp
Robert pulled him into an embrace as if he were kin. "Arthur, my boy! You'll ride with us, then? Gods, it will be good to have you on the road."
"I am honored, Your Grace," the youth replied, his voice courteous, humble even, though his eyes belied the tone. "It will be good to return to Winterfell."
Return. The word curdled in her ears. As though he were a Stark himself, and not the orphan whelp of a dead knight and the grandson of a toad who wheezed when he breathed. Yet here he stood, straight and proud, and Robert embraced him as if he were his own son.
"Your Grace," Wyman puffed, his breath coming thick. "Arthur will present White Harbor's homage at Winterfell, if it please you. My health forbids such a ride, and Wylis is needed here to govern."
Robert waved it away, careless as ever. "Of course. Arthur will do just fine. Ned will be glad to see him."
Cersei caught the faint smile that curved the boy's lips at the name of Eddard Stark. That alone soured her wine. Her lip curled, though she smoothed it quickly. She stepped forward, her hand still resting on Myrcella's shoulder, and offered the youth a smile sharp as glass.
"House Manderly has been… most generous," she said, her words sweetened with just enough courtesy to mask the disdain. "This stay has been… enlightening."
The wheelhouse rocked with every rut and turn in the road, though the velvet benches and silken cushions softened the worst of it. Outside came the muffled clop of hooves, the jangle of harness, and the guards' coarse shouts as they cleared the way. Too slow by half than Robert preferred.
"Seven hells!" his voice boomed from outside, carried through the open window slits. "We'd have reached Winterfell twice over if not for this bloody box!"
Cersei sipped from her goblet, the spiced wine warming her tongue, and did not trouble herself to look. Let him rage. He had raged through half their marriage, and would no doubt rage through the rest, until drink and gluttony drowned him as surely as the sea. She swirled the wine lazily, watching the crimson spiral, red as blood.
Across from her, Myrcella busied herself with her doll, stroking its hair with careful, practiced grace. Tommen slept with his head upon a feather pillow, his cheeks flushed and round as apples. He looked so sweet when he dreamed.
Then, a voice. Smooth. Controlled. Too smooth.
"My apologies, Your Grace." Arthur Manderly, of course, riding alongside the window as if summoned by her thoughts. "The journey has proven slower than expected. Yet the Queen's and the royal children's comfort and safety are paramount. Still, if it pleases Your Grace, I have sent ahead for one of our improved carriages. Lighter, swifter. Built by our artificers for the northern roads. It would be an honor to gift it to Her Grace."
Robert's laugh was a bellow. "You've a gift for every bloody day, boy! You'll make me fatter still with all your generosity."
Cersei leaned back into the cushions. Her lips curled ever so slightly, more thought than smile. So polished, this boy. Too polished. He had gifted Joffrey a beautifully crafted plate armor made from their white steel, Myrcella a necklace of moonstones, Tommen a fine little sword he would never use, Jaime a new saddle of white leather too fine for any warhorse, and even Tyrion a strange book bound in gold-threaded hide. A trickster's generosity. No one gave so freely without wanting something dear in return.
"Mother," Myrcella's voice was soft and dreamy. "Arthur is so gallant, isn't he?"
Cersei arched a brow. "Is he?"
"He crowned me queen of love and beauty at the tourney," the girl said, her eyes alight. "After he unhorsed Uncle Jaime. He looked so handsome as always. Will I have a husband as handsome as him, Mother?"
Cersei remembered well the boy's smile, helm beneath his arm, as he laid the garland of white roses across her daughter's lap. Jaime's defeat had stung, though he had laughed it away. Robert had been pleased, as always, by strength that was not his own. Her little girl had glowed like the sun, clutching her flowers.
She touched Myrcella's cheek with a gloved hand. "You will have a prince, sweetling. The handsomest in all the kingdoms. Handsome, and strong."
But Myrcella only sighed, her eyes drifting to the window. "He is the handsomest in all the world."
Tommen stirred at that, rubbing his nose with a chubby hand. "I want to be strong like Ser Arthur," he murmured, blinking sleepily.
Her smile faltered. "You'll be stronger, my love," she said quickly. "You're a lion. Never forget that."
The boy's eyes lit with childish hope. "Can I squire for Ser Arthur, Mother? Please?"
"No," she snapped, sharper than she intended. "You'll learn from your uncle. Jaime is the finest knight in the realm. You'll be greater than all of them."
Tommen nodded solemnly and did not press her further. He was a gentle boy, too soft, too tender for court. Yet he was hers. She stroked his hair as the wheelhouse rocked on, her gaze slipping to the window slit, where the trees rushed past in a blur of green and frost. Let the Manderly whelp win his jousts. Let him shower his trinkets. A Lannister always pays their debtsandIshallpaymine.
"The wheelhouse creaked, then shuddered to a halt. For a moment, there was only the clatter of hooves outside, the rasp of harness, and the muted bark of guards clearing the path. Then the curtain stirred and Jaime stepped within, golden as ever, his smile too boyish for a man grown.
"We're nearly there," he said, his eyes flicking first to her, then to the children. "Winterfell's towers are on the horizon."
At last. Cersei smoothed her skirts with slow, deliberate grace, rising from the velvet cushions. She had endured Manderly's act long enough. Winterfell would be colder, harsher, but at least the wolves wore their savagery plain.
"They'll like it, I think," Jaime said, glancing at Myrcella with a softness that made her think of fools and songs. Tommen stirred beside her, rubbing sleep from his eyes, blinking blearily as if he could already see the northern keep rising beyond the trees.
"I would rather they did not," she said coldly. The words cut the air like a whip. These children were hers, not Robert's and not Jaime's; they belonged to her, not some man who did not know their worth.
Jaime smirked, unbothered, "Arthur's riding with Robert. They're thick as thieves now."
Of course, he was. That boy had a gift for worming his way into men's good graces. One week of gifts and gallantry, of polished manners and hollow smiles, and Robert treated him as a boon companion. It made her skin crawl.
"Men are easily pleased," Cersei said sweetly, the words honeyed and sharp all at once. She let her eyes linger on Jaime, her meaning plain. "I am not."
Jaime's smile deepened, though he said nothing. Outside, the horns sounded. Winterfell loomed ahead, and with it wolves who thought themselves king. Let them think what they want, for the true Queen has arrived.