The ravens croaked outside Maegor's Holdfast, their cries echoing off the red stone like the whisper of ghosts. Morning light spilled through the high arched windows of her solar, soft and golden, touching the gilded lions wrought upon the pillars. The air smelled faintly of lemon and ink. Cersei sat before her mirror, her hair being brushed to shining gold by a silent maid when the chamber doors creaked open.
Grand Maester Pycelle entered, stooped and slow, the chain about his neck clinking faintly as he moved. He bowed, his white beard trembling with the effort. "Your Grace," he wheezed, "I have received a letter from your most noble father, Lord Tywin."
He drew forth a parchment sealed with the lion of Lannister. His liver-spotted hands trembled as he held it out.
Cersei's patience, already thin as spider silk, snapped. "Must you take an age for everything, old man?" she said, snatching the letter from his hand.
Pycelle flinched but did not answer.
She broke the seal with a nail and unfolded the parchment. The scent of the wax was sharp, familiar. Her father's hand was as precise as ever. The banners can be called within a fortnight, should the need arise. But tread lightly. The crown is not yours to commandandneitheristheRock.
Cersei's lips tightened. Not hers. It would be. All of it, the Casterly Rock, the Iron Throne, the realm. All hers.
She read on. Tywin spoke of the Vale, of how Jon Arryn's death had left a vacuum, of how the new Hand would not be so easily swayed but must be. And still he commanded her to do so anyway. She folded the letter carefully and rose. "So. My father sees what I see. Lord Stark is a problem."
Jaime lounged near the hearth, one leg thrown over the arm of a chair, golden hair catching the firelight. He smiled lazily. "Stark's are a problem for themselves."
Cersei ignored him and turned to Pycelle. "Tell me of the council. Has the new Hand decided to remove Varys yet?"
Pycelle cleared his throat, his wheeze wet and phlegmy. "Your Grace, I have… not yet had the chance to speak with Lord Stark. The man is cautious, perhaps even suspicious. It would be unwise to press too suddenly. And the eunuch hears all, as ever."
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "The spider's only a man."
"If Varys's a man," Jaime said from his chair, his tone light, "then Pycelle here is not a toad."
The old maester stiffened, color flooding his wrinkled cheeks. "I beg your pardon, ser," he croaked.
Jaime smiled, sharp and cruel. "I give it to you. Now go before you try my patience further."
Cersei turned her gaze on the Grand Maester, cool as polished steel. "Go. We shall speak more later."
Pycelle bowed awkwardly, his knees cracking as he bent. "As you say, Your Grace." His chain rattled as he shuffled toward the door. When it closed behind him, silence settled like a heavy cloak.
Jaime rose and crossed the room in three easy strides, pouring himself a cup of wine. Cersei turned toward the window, where the city lay sprawled beneath a haze of sun and smoke.
Jaime came to stand behind her, his reflection meeting hers in the glass. "You worry too much about this Stark. He's an honorable man. And honorable men are predictable."
"Honorable men are dangerous," Cersei said softly. "They see the world in black and white, and they think truth their shield. But truth cuts both ways. If Eddard Stark learns what Jon Arryn knew—"
"Then he'll die as Jon Arryn did," Jaime said, his voice low.
The sunlight caught in the gold of her hair, bright as firelight on polished metal. Behind her, Jaime was still smiling that insolent, careless smile of his, the one that could make her want to strike him or kiss him.
"You shouldn't insult Pycelle so openly," Cersei said without turning. Her voice was cool, precise. "He's loyal to our house, and I would like to keep it so."
"Loyal?" Jaime laughed softly, "He's a grey, sunken rat wrapped in chains. The only thing he's loyal to is the smell of his own chamber pot. Take away his office, and he'd crawl to the first man who offered him a seat on the council again."
She turned then, her green eyes flashing. "And yet rats can bite, brother. Best not to poke one unless you mean to crush it."
Jaime came to her, his golden armor gleaming even in the half-light. "Then crush him. Crush them all, if it pleases you." He reached for her, fingers brushing her sleeve.
She stepped back sharply. "Not now. Robert's here."
"As if that's ever changed anything," Jaime murmured, his voice low and amused.
Cersei's gaze hardened. "It changes everything. So is Eddard Stark, and half the realm besides. Even the Tyrells have come, with their perfumed courtiers and painted smiles."
Jaime's smirk deepened. "They can all fuck off."
"Be serious for once in your life," she hissed. "We are surrounded by enemies, and you don't even care. You never do. As always, I have to be the one who protects our family."
"Is that so?" Jaime's tone softened, though the mockery never left his eyes. "Tell me, sweet sister, how do you protect us? With letters?"
Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, she almost told him, the message she had sent to Casterly Rock, her father's reply, the quiet readiness of the West. The forges lit, the banners waiting to be called. War could come as easily as dawn breaking. But Jaime would not understand. He never had.
Cersei turned away, watching the city through her window. King's Landing sprawled below like a festering wound, smoke, stone, and the glint of gold where sunlight touched a dome or a helmed guard. It will all be mine, she thought. All of it, if I must burn half the realm to make it so.
"You need not concern yourself with it," she said at last.
Behind her came Jaime's low, careless laugh. "If you say so. You worry too much, Cersei. You always have. The gods won't let anything happen to us," he said, tone dripping mockery. "We're Lord Tywin's blood, after all."
"The gods have nothing to do with it," she said, her voice cold. "A lioness has no need of prayers. It is her prey that does."
A knock came sharp upon the door, breaking the stillness between them.
Cersei did not look away from the window. "Enter," she commanded.
The door opened to reveal a tall, fair-haired youth, her cousin, Lancel, his green eyes nervous beneath the sweep of his golden fringe. He dropped to one knee at once. "Your Grace. Ser Jaime."
Jaime raised a brow. "Up, cousin. You'll wear holes in the floor."
Lancel rose quickly, "The King requests your presence in the Great Hall. He means to hold court today."
Cersei turned, the faintest curl touching her lips. "Does he indeed?"
Robert detested court. It was too dull for his taste and too dry for thirst. He held it twice a year, sometimes once and even then only to bluster, to jest, or to remind the realm he still wore the crown. He rules the realm once a year and whores throughthe rest, she thought bitterly. A king drunk on his own bygone glory.
"Yes, Your Grace. The nobles have filled the hall."
She moved, her gown whispering like silk against the floor. "Very well. Tell His Grace we shall be there."
Jaime smiled crookedly. "Court? With Robert in attendance? The gods must be laughing."
Cersei smoothed her sleeves, every motion deliberate. "They've been laughing. They're mocking us by keeping him alive." She cast one last glance at her reflection, then swept from the chamber.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a furnace of gold and red and heat. The sunlight fell through the high windows, striking the blades of the Iron Throne until it glimmered like a beast of molten steel. The air stank of oil, sweat, and incense, too many bodies in one place, all straining to look important.
Cersei walked the length of the hall with her head high, her gown trailing like a river of gold behind her. The courtiers parted before her as though before a queen in truth and not in name. Jaime followed at her shoulder, his white cloak billowing, while Ser Barristan stood already beside the throne, a gleaming sentinel of old honor.
Robert slouched upon the Iron Throne, crown crooked, beard unkempt, looking every inch the tired drunkard that he was. Yet the courtiers still roared his name when he entered. Men were fools, all of them, awed by noise and steel and the memory of battles they never fought.
At the foot of the throne, two chairs had been set. One upon the king's right, for the Hand, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, solemn and stone-faced as ever. The other to the left, for his queen, Cersei Lannister of Casterly Rock. Cersei took her seat, her green eyes sliding briefly toward the wolf beside her.
Cersei let her gaze travel the hall. Lords and knights from every corner of the realm filled it. Reachmen, Stormlanders, the proud Vale knights, even a few from the Westerlands come south to seek favor.
The Tyrells had come too, gathered like a bouquet of snakes near the steps, drowning themselves in silks as though fine cloth could hide their greed. Mace Tyrell beamed like a fat sunflower, while his mother, the old crone of Highgarden, whispered in her flowery grandson's ear.
Margaery Tyrell stood slightly apart, framed in green and gold, a picture painted to please. All doe-eyes, dimples, and soft curls, with a smile that looked sweet enough to trust if one were born stupid. Her bodice was cut to hint at womanhood she barely possessed; her hands folded, her posture demure, as though modesty might hide the calculation in her gaze.
Cersei studied the child, lips curving faintly, though no warmth touched her eyes. So this was the one, she thought. The little rose Robert's simpering brother wished to set in my place. The one they whispered of as if she were Lyanna Stark reborn.
A laugh rose in her throat, sharp and cold, though she did not allow it past her lips.
Half her age, and half her worth. Did they truly believe this was a replacement for her? That Robert, gods help the realm, would cast aside a lioness for a flower.
Cersei's fingers tightened on the carved wood of her chair. If only she had been at Harrenhal that day. If only her father had not caged her like a prize mare while lesser girls danced before the silver prince. She had been meant for Rhaegar, beautiful, noble, and worthy.
Had Rhaegar seen her, he would never have chosen that Stark girl with her northern mud and wild mane. He would have crowned her the queen of love and beauty, Cersei knew it. She had always known it.
Instead, Rhaegar crowned Lyanna, and Robert spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost that never died.
The business of the court began. Petitions were read, disputes were addressed, and Cersei felt the dull ache of impatience settle behind her ribs. Every man who came forward, every lord who flattered, whispered, or begged, reminded her of men's weakness and folly that filled the world.
Hours passed, and still the great hall echoed with summons and chatter.
The High Septon droned on at the foot of the dais, his voice thick and soporific. "…and may the Faithful remember Saint Hugor of the Hills, first of the Andals, who brought the light of the Seven eastward to the mountains of Andalos…"
Cersei stifled a yawn behind her hand. How many times had she endured this farce? Fat priests prattling of piety while they gorged themselves on figs and honey, preaching restraint from beneath jeweled rings.
She glanced sideways at Robert. He was fidgeting in his seat, rubbing his temples, the fingers of one hand drumming impatiently upon the arm of the throne.
Eddard Stark, by contrast, sat perfectly still, as if carved of the same hard granite that made his northern keeps. His eyes were fixed on the Septon, grave and distant, as though the fool's sermon mattered.
The High Septon lifted his hands heavenward, his rings glinting in the candlelight. His voice, though soft with age, carried through the hall. "We shall now let speak the first warrior who has pledged his sword for the gods."
Cersei stifled a sigh. More mummery, she thought. The Faith never tires of its own noise. Her gaze drifted to Robert, who was half-asleep upon the Iron Throne, chin resting in one great hand.
A murmur rippled through the gathered lords as the young man stepped forth, a vision in blue and silver.
Arthur Manderly.
Cersei's lips tightened into a thin line. Of course it would be him. Always the perfect knight, the dutiful grandson, a son of the North dressed in finery, as though somehow it'd made him less savage than the rest.
As he walked toward the throne, the torchlight seemed to cling to him, catching in his pale-blonde hair until it shone like molten gold, and Cersei felt a faint flicker of shameful desire she tried to suppress.
Arthur knelt gracefully before the throne, his posture impeccable, his gaze steady upon Robert. "Your Grace," he said, voice calm and strong, "I beg your leave to address the hall."
Robert, who had been slouched half-drunk, suddenly sat up straighter, eyes lighting with delight. "Rise, Arthur, my boy, rise!" His voice boomed, carrying through the hall like a hammer striking stone. The grin that split his beard seemed almost manic in its size. "By the gods, the hall is yours, speak!"
"Thank you, Your Grace," said the young heir, his voice calm, "I am honored."
Arthur stood, his gaze sweeping the hall before fixing upon the High Septon. "His Holiness speaks true. The holy lands of our ancestors are being tainted by the blood of believers. Yet that is not why I have pledged my sword to the gods, though one needs no greater reason."
Arthur began to pace slowly across the marble floor, his words measured, his tone near reverent. The echo of his boots carried through the murmurs.
"I have pledged to the gods," Arthur continued, "because there can be no nobler altar upon which to lay one's sword. Too long have we raised steel against our own, brother against brother, kingdom against kingdom. We plunder our neighbors, burn their fields, and call it valor. Call it justice."
A soft murmur rose from the crowd. The boy paused. His eyes lifted to the royal dais, only for a brief while. Toward her. Yet, Cersei still felt the weight of that gaze, not insolent, the boy was not bold enough for that. But too steady, too knowing for her liking. A boy should look at his queen with awe, not measure.
Again, Arthur walked, and his blue-green eyes slipped from her to the figure standing just below, Sandor Clegane, looming like some great, scarred beast forced into a knight's shell. Joffrey leaned forward in his chair, eager as a pup, while the Hound merely rolled a shoulder, the burned half of his face set in its eternal sneer of contempt.
Arthur's gaze lingered a heartbeat too long.
"And some of us," he said, voice hardening, "kill innocents and drape the slaughter in sanctity, muttering the names of their lords, of coin, of duty, like prayers spoken over bloodied blades. As if it would wash the sin away."
A shiver rippled through the hall. The courtiers stiffened and shifted uneasily. Ned Stark sat straighter beside her, gray eyes darkening like storm clouds. Cersei saw Joffrey's lips part, confusion flickering across his pale features. Robert seemed to ignore the words entirely. Sandor only bared a row of yellowed teeth in something that might have been a smile, or the promise of a snarl.
Arthur was playing a clever game, every word dancing close to insult. Clever enough to sting without drawing blood. The boy dares to preach of virtue to kings, Cersei thought, fingers curling around the arm of her chair.
Arthur Manderly walked as though he owned the hall. There had been murmurs at first, a few idle whisperers, muffled laughters, but one by one the voices faltered, dwindled into silence, until only the echo of his heels and the low crackle of flame remained.
"We have forgotten our true enemies," he said, the words ringing clear across the vaults. "The foreigners who have plagued our kingdoms for generations have now returned to their homeland."
Arthur's tone grew bolder, heat burning through his courtly restraint. "The last of the dragonspawn have allied themselves with faithless barbarians. Their union has laid waste to the holy septs of the gods, to the sons and daughters of the Seven. Those men had fought and lost the same peace we now enjoy!"
Arthur was no longer speaking to the throne now, but to the hall itself, to the rows of knights and courtiers, the nobles and the priests, the goldcloaks lining the walls. His voice, strong and solemn, carried the weight of righteous fury, and the crowd drank it in like wine.
Robert shifted on the throne, his grin broadening. "Now there's a lad who remembers his enemies!" he said, voice booming over the hall. Half of the lords laughed with him, and Cersei caught the unease in Stark's eyes.
Arthur's voice softened then, low and solemn. "Ser Barney Took," he said. "A name that might mean nothing to most of you. But he was my friend, good, faithful, and loyal. A son of two cities, of King's Landing and of White Harbor. A merchant of industry who lost everything during the Mad King's tyranny and regained it under our strong King Robert's reign."
Robert straightened, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. Cersei could smell the trap even before it was sprung, the boy wrapping his cause in praise of Robert's name, feeding a king's vanity.
Arthur paused, his eyes swept the hall, calm and cold, until they found Robert's upon the Iron Throne. "Our enemies have not forgotten us, even if we have forgotten them, Your Grace," he said. "A fortnight past, there was an attack in the Merling Hall of Lys, a slaughter of innocents."
Robert's brow furrowed slightly, though Cersei could tell his attention wavered between the young man's words and the gleam of the wine cup in his hand.
Arthur went on, "It began as an uprising, an attempted coup by those loyal to the dragon. A Targaryen sympathizer, one who sheltered the beggar prince and his sister, the whore who now lies with a Dothraki barbarian. They unleashed chaos upon the city. Their fire and blood. Many Westerosi merchants found refuge within our hall. Yet not all escaped. Among the dead was my dear friend, Ser Barney Took."
He lingered on the name, and the words struck the hall like a funeral bell. "He was no lord," Arthur continued, "no knight of storied name or high birth. He was a man of faith, of diligence, and of loyalty. He laid down his life for his blood, his king, and his gods. His death shames us all, for we allowed it to happen while we sat behind our walls, pretending the world beyond the Narrow Sea was no concern of ours."
The murmur that followed was uneasy, lords shifting, whispers trading like ripples in a still pond. Even the High Septon bowed his head, muttering a prayer under his breath.
Arthur's voice rose then, fierce and bright. "You sit here and call it peace," he said. "You tell yourselves we are safe, that the dragons are gone. But I tell you, the dragonspawns live, and they gather strength. They consort with demons, heathens, and barbarians, and soon they will bring them across the sea. And when that day comes, the gods shall remember who stood idle while their temples burned."
He looked at the crowd and said, "There are those who would have us look away. Who say the dragon is gone, that their fire has no reach. But faithless fire burns ever, my lords. It waits. It festers. And if we turn our eyes, it will devour us again."
A murmur rippled through the gathered lords. Even the air seemed thicker now, charged with fervor and fear.
Arthur drew his sword with a slow, deliberate grace, and the sound of Valyrian steel sliding free was like a whisper of thunder, dark and cold and alive. The torchlight caught along its rippled edge, a black flame gleaming beneath the vaults of the throne room.
"This," Arthur said, lifting the blade high, "is no war for gold or glory. This is a war for our Righteous! A war of the Just! A war of our FURY!"
His voice filled the hall, every word a spark in dry tinder. "Let those who have been fighting their own blood now take up arms against the unholy. Let those who have sold their swords for coin seek their eternal reward in the service of the gods. Hugor commands it… and the gods wills it!"
The words cracked like a whip. The roar that followed was deafening. Steel rang as hundreds of blades were drawn and raised aloft. "The gods wills it! The gods wills it!" they cried, again and again, until the sound seemed to shake the very stones.
Cersei watched them with a still, perfect smile that hid her disgust. Men were such simple beasts, show them a sword, a name, a cause, and they would gladly bleed for it. Even the clever ones.
The banners in the hall stirred, rippling with the movement of men. From the Vale, from the Riverlands, the Reach, the Stormlands, lords and knights stood as one, their voices echoing like the clash of war-drums.
And then Robert rose.
The king's laughter boomed across the hall, loud and raw as ever, but his eyes were bright with something she had not seen in years. He drew his own blade and raised it high, though his great warhammer would have been more fitting. Yet this was a moment for show, not of war.
"By the gods," Robert roared, "we will take up the Seven Pointed Star and march for the glory of the gods! We'll crush the bastards and end the dragons once and for all! The gods wills it!"
The cry redoubled, a frenzy of faith and fury. Men stamped their boots, banged hilts on armor, shouted until their throats broke. The High Septon wept openly, hands raised to the ceiling as if he could touch heaven itself.
Cersei sat motionless, her hands folded neatly upon her lap. Fools, she thought. Every one of them.
Robert's sudden zeal was nothing but a drunkard's whim, a flash of heat soon to cool, but the others, lords with gold and banners, were already caught in the tide. And all of it sparked by one boy's words.
Arthur Manderly stood below the throne, his dark sword gleaming. Robert looked toward him, still grinning like a bear scenting blood, and Cersei saw the spark of admiration in her husband's eyes.
She glanced at Eddard Stark. His face had gone pale beneath the torchlight, his mouth set in a grim line. He looked at the boy who had just roused half the realm to madness. Stark's eyes held no admiration, only fear.
You should be afraid, she thought, watching him. You and every man in this hall. Not of this boy,no, butof me.