Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast.
Cersei swirled the jewel-encrusted goblet in her hand, eyes lowered as she watched the red liquid ripple within. Her long lashes veiled the sharpness in her gaze.
When Cersei had been a young girl, she had sought out the maegi. Under threat, the woman had agreed to foretell her future.
She had asked, "When will I wed the prince?"
The maegi replied, "Never. You will wed the king."
She had asked, "I will be queen, then?"
The maegi replied, "Yes. You will be queen, until another comes—one younger and more beautiful—who will cast you down and take from you all you hold dear."
She had asked, "Will the king and I have children?"
The maegi replied, "Oh, yes. Sixteen for him, and three for you. They will wear crowns of gold and shrouds of gold."
And the maegi had said, "One day, when you are drowning in tears, your valonqar will wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."
…
The sudden death of Jon Arryn filled Cersei with delight. The news left her in excellent spirits.
So when a handmaiden announced that House Tyrell requested an audience, the queen—already in high spirits—readily agreed.
But the moment she saw Margaery Tyrell standing beside the old crone Olenna, her good mood vanished.
Margaery was young and beautiful, a match for Cersei in her own youth. That was Cersei's first impression.
It was not merely Margaery's beauty that stirred the memory of the prophecy, but the unique air about her—an aura Cersei knew well, for she herself bore it as queen.
Her gaze trembled. She had wed Robert, borne three children of her own… the prophecy was coming true.
Then… was this "other woman" Margaery Tyrell? Would she take all that Cersei loved?
Whether it was true or not, Cersei had lost all interest in any alliance with House Tyrell.
Robert Baratheon, to Cersei, was as good as dead. Once Joffrey sat the Iron Throne, she would be Queen Regent—and what was a single golden rose to her then? Now that Jon Arryn was dead, the Tyrells had outlived their usefulness.
Robert still lived, and she was not yet regent. It took all her restraint not to have them killed outright.
Once she ruled as regent…
Cersei sipped her summerwine, curling her lips into a smile.
"Lady Olenna, the journey must have wearied you greatly. And… this young rose?"
Margaery only offered a faint smile and looked to her grandmother.
Olenna's sunken eyes were still bright and keen.
"Your Grace of House Lannister, do not be fooled by this old woman's bent back—when a handsome lad passes, my heart still flutters. I simply hide it too well for you to notice."
She patted Margaery's hand and went on,
"I see the queen's color is poor. Is it the Hand's passing that troubles you? House Tyrell has come as agreed, and this old woman is most willing to serve."
For a heartbeat, Cersei's hand stilled on her goblet. She answered casually,
"The old lord departed suddenly. The Red Keep is uneasy, and I am working to calm it."
Olenna nodded.
"My son—who never heeds his mother's words—has done well for once. No doubt he is at the Sept now, offering comfort."
Cersei tensed. She had no wish to linger on talk of Mace Tyrell.
They had brought Margaery of marriageable age to King's Landing—did they mean to seek a match with the royal family?
Queen…
Cersei's fingers tightened around her cup. "My thanks to the Lord of Highgarden."
Olenna's tone was edged with mockery.
"My son is good for errands, no more. Do not expect too much of him."
Cersei smiled thinly.
"Lady Olenna is too modest. I have heard that the Lord of Highgarden once led an army to besiege Storm's End, driving its garrison to slaughter their horses, their cats and dogs, even nearly to eating their dead."
Cersei cared little for war; this she had only heard from Gawen, who admired Mace Tyrell.
Olenna's eyes glinted.
"A charming misunderstanding. If my son heard such tales, he'd be too pleased to sleep."
Cersei gave her a puzzled look.
Olenna shook her head.
"I told him not to meddle. War is for true warriors, not for him.
But my son has soft ears, easily swayed by his men. Against my counsel he led his host to war… ha! That was no siege. He never neared the battlefield. For half a year he merely consumed the Reach's stores. The only thing my son besieged was his own table."
Cersei's lips curved.
"The process matters little. The truth is written by the victors."
A brief gleam passed in Olenna's eyes.
"That is for historians to fret over. An old woman may only grumble about her children."
Gripping the chair's arm, Olenna rose unsteadily.
"I will not keep the queen from her duties. The Lord of Highgarden will attend to the rest."
Cersei nodded perfunctorily.
Olenna gave her one last look before leaving with Margaery.
Cersei watched them go, aching to summon the guards and have Margaery put to death.
Her eyes sharpened. Her enemies all met the same end—utter annihilation.
A foolish prophecy… if she destroyed every threat, would it still come to pass?
…
Outside Maegor's Holdfast.
Margaery walked arm in arm with her silent grandmother. At her signal, their maids slowed, falling behind.
"Grandmother," Margaery murmured, "Queen Cersei seems… hostile toward me."
"I never dreamed Tywin's daughter could be so stupid," Olenna said, voice tight with anger. "Too stupid to reason with."
Margaery's face darkened.
"I'm surprised as well. Is she going back on our agreement?"
"Our boar of a lord is still dreaming his pretty dreams," Olenna replied dryly. "But yes—our foolish queen in the Holdfast has just that in mind."
Margaery frowned.
"Because Lord Arryn is gone? She thinks she no longer needs the golden rose's support?"
Even she found the thought absurd.
"A fool never knows her own folly," Olenna said. "She believes herself clever enough to play us all."
"This is an insult to House Tyrell," Margaery said.
Olenna patted her arm.
"Outsiders see only the beauty of the rose, forgetting its thorns. The golden rose holds the initiative.
If she truly dares, let her drive us away herself. We are no one's servants. Should she try, I'll go straight to Tywin Lannister and see how the Lions repay their debts."
"I understand, Grandmother. I'll say nothing to Father. His enthusiasm serves us well—we shall watch and see how Queen Cersei breaks her word."
Olenna smiled at her clever granddaughter.
They passed beneath green shade and birdsong. Olenna paused before a sea of flowers.
"Margaery, can you reach that little fox?"
"Lord Gawen?" Margaery's eyes brightened.
"Yes. Before leaving Westeros he sent me word. If I wish to reach him, I can send a letter to his Siren's Port."
"Then write at once," Olenna said. "Tell him his beloved Lord of Highgarden is in trouble. If he cannot fix it, I'll tan his hide—write it just so."
Margaery's eyes widened at the choice of words, but she nodded.
Olenna moved on.
"A favorite has his uses. Do you know their greatest skill? Cleaning up after stupid great lords. That boy, as the queen's pet, will know Cersei's mind well."
She did not wait for Margaery's reply.
"We are in no hurry. The more haste, the more mistakes. In the game of thrones, patience comes first."
Beneath her bright eyes, worry lingered.
Tywin's cunning had long shielded Cersei Lannister. Most who inquired into the Red Keep learned only of her willfulness—natural enough for a Lion of the Rock, a queen of the realm.
But today's meeting had shown Olenna that it was not mere willfulness.
House Tyrell had not come to King's Landing for the Hand's seat alone. Their aim was the crown itself.
So long as Cersei remained in the Red Keep, she would be a barrier to the rose's bloom upon the Iron Throne.
…
Pentos.
Gawen lifted his eyes to the sky.
"Lord Jon Arryn is dead," he murmured.
The news had reached him not through his own channels from King's Landing to Siren's Port to Pentos, but from the bustling street—faster than his own network.
In Pentos, he was warmly received by cloth merchants and jewelers.
He bought only the finest for Queen Cersei—among the bolts of fabric, the redder and thinner, the better. Once his choices were made, Steward Rossell could see to the rest.
It was time to return.
…
Illyrio Mopatis' mansion.
Daenerys did not hide the disappointment on her face.
"Lord Gawen, must you really leave?"
Since meeting him, he had given her the thing she most craved—peace of mind—reminding her of the safety she'd felt in childhood under Ser Willem's care.
Gawen smiled.
"Princess Daenerys, I've just heard that the man most eager to see the Crab Claw Peninsula broken—Lord Jon Arryn—has died. I must hurry back to curry favor with the new Hand, before he takes up the cause again.
The guards I leave will see to your safety. Even far from Westeros, I'll rest easier. Our road is long—there will be other meetings."
Daenerys smiled, then shook her head.
"My brother Viserys will bring his army someday. When that time comes, you—"
Her voice faltered, eyes misting.
Gawen shrugged.
"The last great war nearly wiped out House Crabb. We cannot afford another loss.
So I will hide, and when the dust settles, I will come out to pay homage to the Iron Throne. My lands are… unique. We only wish for peace. As for Prince Viserys…"
He paused.
"Princess, tell me—whom do you think we wish to see upon the Iron Throne?"
"Of course—" Daenerys stopped short. Why did he ask? By her brother's word, the throne was Targaryen by right, merely stolen by the usurper.
"There will be so many dead," Gawen said softly.
He smiled at her hesitation.
"By law, the throne is your family's. Baratheon's hold owes much to his Targaryen grandmother—his claim was still within the law.
The realm has been at peace for years, and the smallfolk are only just recovering from war—along with many minor lords."
"Lord Gawen… you mean my brother's army will be unwelcome?"
"That depends on what the prince does. Most care only for their own gain—or what more they might be given."
She dabbed her eyes and asked with a smile,
"And you? What would it take for you to join the war?"
Gawen thought seriously.
"Give me the Vale, and I'll be his loyal steed."
He threw back his head and laughed.
She blinked, then laughed as well. Their eyes met.
"If Your Grace commands it, I would consider marching," he said warmly.
She turned aside, murmuring,
"Thank you, my knight."
He had given her an answer, asked nothing in return, and left her men for protection.
She understood—her brother cared only for armies. With this, she had fulfilled his command, and need not fear rousing the dragon's wrath.
Could he…? She looked back at him, lips parting.
Gawen seemed not to notice.
"It is an honor to have Your Grace's trust."
"Viserys…" She drew a long, slow breath and steadied herself.
When she lifted her head again, all hesitation was gone.
Her smile was radiant.
"Lord Gawen, I am certain we will not be parted for long. We will meet again soon."
.
.
.
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