Chapter Text
Striding the last few steps of the Red Keep’s outer yard, Cersei began to ascend the steps to the throne room, her green dress fluttering around her ankles. She left her two lady companions, and her guards, trailing behind her. Normally, she would conduct herself with more decorum, but Cersei could not hide the eagerness bursting out of her with hurried steps at the news that was flying into court each day.
Her guard, three of her father’s men, stopped before the tall oak doors where men of the city watch, and one of the White Cloaks stood. No blades were allowed in the King’s presence apart from those of the Kingsguard. Cersei’s father had told her that this had been King Aerys’ decree since the Defiance of Duskendale, shortly before she was presented to the court of King’s Landing, and now whenever the King held court one of the Kingsguard would stand at the door beforehand to see his words were obeyed.
Today it was Ser Jonothor Darry, a dull man just like his brothers in arms, as it had been before every court session since the ailing Harlan Grandison fell sick.
“Your swords, good sers, if you wish to enter the Great Hall for court today,” the knight said, wasting his breath stating well known orders by rote. A small group of the Red Keeps guardsmen stood with him, while many of the guards for the various nobility were occupying themselves training in the yard before the court session began.
To the right of the door stood a wooden sword rack, the swords mounted from first to last heavily ornamented. Commoners simple enough to bring weapons to the Red Keep learned very quickly not to draw the King’s suspicions. Only nobles brought swords to be mounted, a most fashionable way to showcase wealth and prestige.
Cersei spied an enamelled hilt capped with a red salmon with rubies for scales. Yes Mooton, we are all impressed with your benefactors' gold dragons.
She sculpted her face into a kindly, dutiful smile, for her father’s men, “thank you for escorting us, you are relieved for now. We will need you again once matters are settled at court, I have business on the Street of Steel.”
She needed a gift for her twin, Jaime, on his arrival. He would be knighted very soon, whether on the field of battle or when he reached King’s Landing and Cersei had to get a fitting gift for a newly minted knight. Besides, the only thing Jaime loved more than his knightly pursuits was Cersei herself and she needed to use that. The best place to commission such a gift in the city was undoubtedly the Street of Steel.
Once they’d left she turned to the White Cloak, “are we free to enter, Ser Darry.” she asked, a painting of politeness.
“Of course, my Lady,”
Of course I am too stupid to ever suspect a woman of being armed, you mean, Ser.
Safely out of earshot, she smirked to Melara, her companion, in a teasing mummer's whisper, “How did you smuggle that dagger in your bodice?”
Rather than react how Cersei wished, the older girl clutched her hands and replied in a breathy sigh at her jape, “Do you think Ser Jonothor should have searched me? How improper!”
Cersei could hardly think of a more repulsive force, breaking into a laugh with Melara at the thought.
Her other companion, Jeyne, gave a disapproving huff going slightly red at her blonde roots, “Must you two talk like that, the wrong person hears and we’ll be in the Black Cells before noon.”
Melara huffed in good humour, “Only more likely with your talk about the dungeons.”
“Besides,” Cersei pointed out, “they’d hardly put a Lannister and her companions in the Black Cells for a bit of idle talk at the expense of a sour knight.”
That did not seem to satisfy Jeyne, who looked distinctly uneasy, but she wisely held her tongue, putting Ser Darry out of her mind.
The Kingsguard were an ebbing force in the Red Keep, normally two would guard the doorway to the Great Hall on days like this. Ser Lewyn Martell was with his great niece and Prince Rhaegar on Dragonstone. Ser Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and Baristan Selmy were away fighting the Kingswood Brotherhood. Finally, Harlan Grandison, who should have stood guard beneath the Throne, was bedridden and soon to die all men agreed. It couldn’t come soon enough in Cersei’s opinion. Depending on events he might need helping along into the Stranger’s embrace.
How could a man who, even before his illness, had barely the strength to wield a sword, guard the king?
He was old and withered enough that Cersei had found herself a little sick to look at the aged knight when her father had bade her to visit him. His death could be an opportunity to fix her parent’s mistake in separating her from Jaime, and Cersei wouldn’t let anyone separate them again, no matter what plans her father had drawn up with Hoster Tully during his recent visit.
The last of the Kingsguard would be with the King himself, another wizened knight, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. The man was still injured from a bolt he’d taken guarding Elia Martell, a wound to his hand that had become infected for a time.
If only the Brotherhood’s aim had been truer.
The Kingsguard weren't the only ones fighting in the Kingswood, and that was the crux of Cersei’s excitement. Her twin was squiring for a bore of a lord was fighting them too. She fought down the old jealousy at her twin wielding a sword, fighting outlaws while she was forced to wait for ravens to bring news of his deeds.
She could hardly put into words how much she missed him. It was one of the few things that had made the last three years in King’s Landing less than perfect. Cersei and her other half had been mostly relegated to sending letters to each other in which so much went unsaid, while she was with their father and he squired at Crakehall. Though her twin was not as discreet as he could be in his writing.
There’d only been sparse meetings between the twins these last years. They were brief and unsatisfying. His proximity, only a few leagues across the Blackwater, made the ache all the worse.
Of course, she was not the only one who sought news of her brother. Melara, her little shadow, awaited news of Jaime Lannister almost as much as she did. She tried so hard to be equal to Cersei in any respect.
Cersei had not forgotten what she’d asked when they went with Jeyne to see that witch, Maggy. What would Cersei have done if the witch's vile words had not shocked her so much? Had Jeyne not summoned up some courage from thin air and stayed in the tent with them? She did not like to dwell on that night, or Maggy’s lies about her brother and the murderous red crescent. Whatever the ill omen meant.
How could her brother be killed by the moon? Her words were nothing more than the ravings of a madwoman. She reminded herself.
When Cersei had heard Maggy’s threats against Jaime she’d run to tell her father, but instead she’d been met by uncle Kevan. He’d told her there was nothing to fear from the ravings of a senile woman, such fears were beneath a lady of House Lannister. He did not bring her story to her father. It wasn’t worth his time, and her uncle had made her vow not to speak of it. That was a vow she had kept, and neither her nor Melara and Jeyne had said a word of what they’d heard that night.
Cersei was startled from her thoughts as the herald announced her entrance, “Hail, Lady Cersei of the House Lannister, and her companions, the ladies Jeyne Farman and Melara Hetherspoon.”
She smiled, Cersei couldn’t help it at the eyes she drew, and she couldn’t deny it was a welcome distraction from her mulling thoughts.
Lords and ladies from all across the Seven Kingdoms turned at her name. There was no one as lovely as she at court, she outshone every lady at only fifteen name days. Not the Queen, who was a pale shadow of the woman her mother had described to her in her childhood, not Melara, whose bronze and black dress attempted to equal Cersei’s own in splendor even though she had neither the form not gold to ever do so, and definitely not the Princess of Dorne, who looked more like a gangly squire than a future queen. She avoided King’s Landing as if it were plague ridden, dragging Prince Rhaegar from the city too. Cersei wore a gown of green velvet, with gold Myrish lace on the bodice, which unlike the King’s Dornish mistake, made it obvious that she was more of a woman. Just above her breast she wore a gold necklace, the centrepiece a pair of twin golden lions with red ruby eyes.
It was a long sleeved dress, the cool morning air barred Cersei from most of her favourites that better showed her figure. There was still a grip of winter even as the beginnings of spring stirred, soon the white ravens would be released from the Citadel to mark the changing of the seasons. Cersei could hardly wait for Spring, it would finally prove Maggy, that old crone’s words, definitively false.
When Cersei had spied the view at first light from her apartments in the Tower of the Hand, she’d been buffeted by the cold. A longing look at Maegor’s Holdfast, before looking over the rest of the castle’s pale red stone lit with the ghostly light of the smouldering green braziers.
Even though she’d roused early enough that the sun barely crested the curtain wall, her father had already left the Hand’s Tower for court. Prudent, he was always among the first in the Great Hall. Today was no different. Tywin Lannister sat, already in pride of place at the long table which rested beneath the Iron Throne for the Small Council. A tall, broad shouldered man with a well groomed mane of golden hair, Tywin Lannister was a man with a presence that demanded respect, far more than the King could claim with his scraggly beard and unkempt fingernails. Her father wore a shirt of deep crimson decorated with ermine and black, bringing attention by their contrast to the golden chain of office he wore as Hand.
As she took her place walking the length of the hall, passing beneath the high windows and black iron dragon skulls mounted on the pillars, Cersei could see courtiers begging her father’s attention. Others would swan around in their little conversations, but her father would remain rooted, those others would come to him when they wished to speak, there was no need for him to bend.
Today was a gaggle of the Prince’s men, Mooton and Lonmouth at their head. Rhaegar could at least hide that he was having his rats curry father’s favour. Of course, the only way he could have done that was to marry me, instead of a dornishwoman, that was a wound that could not easily be healed. Not that it was his fault, surely he would have chosen to marry me, if his father had allowed him the choice.
Tywin Lannister looked stony faced, even more than usual, whatever these men were speaking of was not something the Lord of Lannister agreed with.
No one had as much will as Tywin Lannister, they’d shared the determination that she should be the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Even with Prince Rhaegar married, he was not deterred. When young Rhaenys was presented at court to the king he had recoiled at her Dornish look, and perhaps that was their chance. Could Prince Rhaegar’s daughter, the King’s own granddaughter, really look like that?
In her lessons, Maester Myrrden had Cersei reading the history of the Dance of the Dragons, of how blatantly Princess Rhaenyra cuckolded her husband Laenor. In history, King Viserys stood by his daughter no matter the evidence placed before him, but the paranoid Aerys might be more amenable to correct his errors with the right honeyed words. It seemed he was half convinced already that his son’s marriage was a mistake. Cersei could see it, Prince Rhaegar at her side, and her loyal brother, a newly minted Knight of the Kingsguard, Jaime, at her other.
“... Ser Longwaters?” Jeyne wittered in her ear.
Cersei frowned, she’d not been listening, “what do I care for some bastard?”
“Cersei, he’s trueborn, a bastard’s grandson maybe, but not born of sin himself,” chided Jeyne, like a Septa giving her lessons, “he left the city with Ser Arthur. He isn’t injured so he must have been sent back for matters that couldn’t be settled with ravens.”
“Let's ask him about Jaime,” Melara said, already stepping toward the knight.
“No,” Cersei hissed, grabbing at the girl’s arm. She blushed, realising she might cause a scene with her overreaction to the little mouse pointing her nose where it wasn’t welcome. “Let's not bother Ser Longwaters, he could not look more haggard if he was asleep standing. We can find out about my brother later, once his urgent business is settled.”
It was true enough that the man looked weary. His ears were tired and his silver hair normally worn like the Prince was strewn out of place. Cersei was happy to use that to her benefit if it let her remind Melara of her place.
Before her friend could respond a herald’s voice rang out, “All hail His Grace, Aerys of the House Targaryen, Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. All hail Her Grace, Rhaella of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”
The king was not normally so early.
Leading them out was the Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, muscle bound and stocky, strong despite his age. The thin grey hairs combed back atop his head were far more sparse than the steel wire that bristled across his upper lip.
The King next, his grace, was aging with a total lack of grace. He had an unkept beard of matted icicles. As grey as a corpse, the unhealthiness of the King’s skin was made all the more stark with the deep red and black tunic hung off of him like bloody curing meat. Aerys shambled up the steps to the Iron Throne, before slinking onto the throne. His head twitched as he looked over the hall’s occupants, the seconds stretching as his shadow of a wife took her seat at the base of the throne. She was normally a rare sight at court, but was forced to attend with the Kingsguard so stretched.
Finally, the king waved a dismissive claw to her father to begin.
Her father stood, “Remaining the Crown’s foremost concern, is the ending of the banditry of the so-called Kingswood Brotherhood. Ser Ryam Longwaters, you bring tidings.”
The man in question stepped before the long table of the council before the knights of the Kingsguard then fell to one knee.
“Your Grace, Lord Hand,” the knight nodded, paying his betters homage in turn.
“Rise, Ser,” her father began having seated himself, “First, the crown would like to thank you for your leal service in the haste you made your journey. I’ve been told you arrived at the Red Keep during the Hour of the Owl after riding through the night.”
“That’s correct, my lord.”
“Then you shall be rewarded fittingly. You’ve brought a report from Ser Dayne?”
“A report and proposals for his Grace’s approval,” Ser Longwaters agreed brandishing a letter he’d been entrusted, “The royal force are encamped outside the village of Redleaf Hill, in the interior of the Kingswood. Troops have been stationed in Meadow Burn and Fawnbrook, with thorough searches of the surrounding forest taking place. There have been a couple of minor skirmishes. Ser Oswell Whent clashed swords with the Smiling Knight, though disarmed he won the engagement with gauntleted fists. The stain on knighthood only escaped due to the intervention of his allies. A number of the Brotherhood were captured by Ser Barristan Selmy and have chosen to take the black, rather than be put to the sword.”
Cersei could feel her eyes beginning to glaze over in disinterest.
Why must we hear the deeds of other men? Tell me about Jaime, you useless knight.
“Each of the Kingsguard have observed how the smallfolk have faced great hardship this winter. Fathers and mothers watch as their children and babes go hungry. Any Septon would preach that they have responsibility for the welfare of their young and currently their only way to accomplish this is to protect the Kingswood Brotherhood who have tricked them into thinking they will protect their rights.”
A murmur went through the hall at the proclamation. An absurd idea, to make excuses for traitors who should be hanged.
“We must show that they are mistaken, that the Crown will not forsake them. Ser Arthur Dayne does not believe that this will be onerous. He proposes allowing for the expansion of grazing lands for Redleaf Hill, Meadow Burn and Fawnbrook. Also, he proposes the expansion of the right to forage in the Kingswood, to fell a tree for each hundred smallfolk every moon from the King’s trees until the end of spring and five deer for the rest of winter and autumn henceforth.”
The knight took a steadying breath and cleared his throat.
“Ser Arthur also suggests that the smallfolk be allowed to bring petitions for alleged unjust punishments by those in the employ and vassals of Lords Fell, Buckler and Cafferen, and indeed the Lords themselves.”
The murmurs among the courtiers turned into an uproar at the proposal. Allowing vying nobles to bring their petitions was the norm at court, but for the smallfolk to question the decisions of their betters was beyond a farce. The cacophony within the Great Hall echoed off the windows, but Cersei stayed silent.
Finally, her father stood and silence gripped the room again.
“First, Ser Longwaters, if these peasants have knowledge that could aid in bringing to justice bandits then they are likewise traitors to the Crown. They may have privileges granted, but after they assist those riding beneath the King’s banner, and not before. They are entitled to nothing more. If privileges are given without good service, we’ll have every peasant from Dorne to the Wall flocking to waste the King’s time. Now, the particulars of any privileges may be discussed in a more fitting setting. As to these supposed abuses by Lords of the Stormlands, what has Lord Baratheon made of these rumours?”
“He remains in the Eyrie, My Lord,” the knight agreed, “his Castellan, Ser Harbert, has refused to deliberate on the matter with his liege lord away.”
Cersei frowned, everyone at court knew that. The Lord of the Stormlands would rather drink and whore with his friends in the Vale than take the power granted by his title. Cersei could not fathom it. Since the assault on Elia Martell and the theft of her dowry, her father had made the point repeatedly that the Kingswood Brotherhood would not have become such a thorn in the kingdom’s side if Lord Baratheon was a stronger Lord. His reasoning for belabouring the point was a mystery to her.
“Fine then. Bring the letter written by Ser Arthur, I would see his wording to the letter.”
Once the parchment was in his hand, Lord Tywin’s frown deepened even further as he read Ser Arthur’s writing.
“These unjust punishments as Ser Arthur put it,” her father began, “are within the rights of the Lords named, only during the reign of the Unlikely would they have been punishable and the King himself saw rightly to repeal them. If that is all we shall move-”
A single raucous laugh cut off her father from the Iron Throne itself. King Aerys convulsed as his laughter possessed him.
“Your Grace?” her Father asked.
The King’s laughter subsided into giggles before he composed himself, pitching his shrill voice to be heard by all the Great Hall.
“Unlike haughty Lord Lannister I shall not silence the voices of my people, representatives may petition for the smallfolk here and a ruling can be made then on their merit at that time.”
Cersei could see as her father worked his jaw.
“As you will, your grace,” Lord Tywin’s tone gave away none of the roiling anger that must have been swirling at the King’s countermand. “Ser Longwaters, you may relay the King’s decision to Ser Dayne when you rejoin him. If that is all, we’ll move on to other business.”
What a complete disappointment, Cersei thought as Ser Longwaters retreated and the court prepared to move on to the next petitioner. Perhaps Melara was right and they would have to enquire with the knight about her twin’s deeds.
She was about to consign herself to a further hour of boring complaints when Cersei noticed some movement to the right of the throne. From the King’s Door behind the throne Maester Harmond, one of the Grand Maester’s underlings, scurried to Pycelle’s side handing him a letter with shaking hands.
Whatever was in the letter clearly shook the old man, the parchment shook in his hands increasingly as he read. He got her father’s attention, the two conversing in low whispers, but not quietly enough for it to escape the King’s attention.
“Pycelle, I didn’t know you were our new Master of Whisperers, poor Varys,” crowed the King.
“I’m afraid I do not understand your grace,” the elderly Maester said, deliberately obtuse.
“I value candor, Pycelle. You can tell the court what you were telling the esteemed Hand,”
“I believe, your Grace, that it may be better to keep this missive private for now,” the Master warbled, his eyes flicking to her father, but only for a moment, “though, I can, of course, tell you.”
He took only one step toward the throne before he was interrupted.
“No, Grand Maester,” the King suddenly sounded serious and humourless, “read it to the court now.”
“You’re Grace, it is a private matter,” Pycelle begged.
The King shifted, quickly losing patience. His hand suddenly jerked from the throne, having cut himself on one of its many swords. “It is my choice, Pycelle, if any letter in the Seven Kingdoms is private, as their King. Now don’t make me repeat myself. There are plenty of grey mules lumbering about that I could replace you with.”
Maester Pycelle bowed his head, relenting to the King. He cleared his throat, before his voice reverberated around the great hall.
“Report of Lord Somner Crakehall, Lord of Crakehall Castle, dated the twentieth day of the first moon 281 AC, on the campaign to bring to justice the Kingswood Brotherhood.” Pycelle began gruffly.
Finally I will hear of the second half of my soul.
“The knights, and elder squires, of the Westerlands, I among them, were dispatched to scout two leagues south of Redleaf Hill. During our search, we were ambushed by men of the Brotherhood, the Smiling Knight himself among them. To my shame, I was injured by the knight, forcing my squires, Jaime Lannister and Merrett Frey to take up the battle.
Young Jaime crossed swords with the Smiling knight with valour and skill. He fought the man on equal footing, each landing blows upon the other. But…” Pycelle’s voice stumbled, teetering with emotion, “the Smiling Knight managed a feint, knocking him down, and then his sword made a bloody arc that carved Jaime across the neck, a mortal blow-”
“That’s not possible,” Cersei heard herself whisper, “that’s not possible.”
Cersei felt the words as if they were the fall of the Hammer of the Waters, she was shattered and icy saltwater ran through her veins in place of blood.
Pycelle must be lying, the letter must be wrong, because it was not possible for Jaime to die and Cersei not feel it. They shared a soul, they entered the world together, and they would leave it together. The words could not be true. And still his mouth continued to move with words Cersei could not hear.
Just like that she could hear Old Maggy’s voice in her ears, as she had five years before, “I am no liar. What I’ve seen is true. On a battlefield caught in midwinter, the lion cub shall be slain by the bloody crescent and in her mourning the lioness will be wrapped in snow.”
It fell into place suddenly. The simpleton could not tell the difference in her vision between a blood moon and the Smiling Knights ghastly carved mouth. How absurd. How completely absurd.
At some point Cersei had fallen to the ground, and through blinking tears the courtiers parted to see her father had launched upright, jolting the table with the movement, bringing silence to the Great Hall. Jeyne and Melara were either side of her, each whispering to Cersei though she could not comprehend them.
Another peal of laughter from the King split the silence like a sword, Cersei had never hated the sound more, hated the King more. “Now Tywin,” King Aerys chided in exaggerated sympathy, “there is no need for such a reaction. You might have lost one son, but remember you still have another, well half a one at least.”
How dare the king compare her twin to Tyrion as if they were worth the same, and how dare the lickspittle lords who laughed along with the king. The laughter burned Cersei’s ears, it burned her head, that pounded at the sound filling the hall.
The King will die for that. Cersei swore silently to herself. There was blood in her mouth, at some point she must have bit her lip, and her nails stabbed painfully into her palms making them bloody. The pain gave her focus as she swore her bloody oath again, he will die, painfully, for joking of Jaime’s death.
Staring up at the King, but otherwise ignoring the barb, Her father stood as if carved from marble, choking the King’s merriment, “With this news I need to resign the Handship, Your Grace, to mourn and set my lands in order.”
“Tywin, once you told me that you were my servant. You serve at my pleasure, and until I choose I change my mind you will serve, and ably,” he lorded over her father.
“No, your grace.” Her Father answered finally, “I will not.”
He lifted his chain of golden hands from his neck and flung it at the foot of the Iron Throne. King Aerys seemed shocked into silence. Lord Tywin strode around the long table for the Small Council, making his way toward her on his way to the hall’s tall oak doors.
“Stand up, Cersei, we are leaving.”
She could only stare up at him, “Father?”
If Tywin was moved, he did not show it.
“Now, Cersei!” he growled. She had never heard his voice so thick with emotion.
Cersei tried, she really did, but her legs failed her until a gentle hand grasped beneath her arm. Jeyne and Melara held her up as if she were a cloth lion at a mummers show, walking her past the onlookers towards the great doors. She looked back one last time at the king.
You will die for this, King Aerys. The next time I see you, your head will be on a spike.