In the yard twoscore knights were hammering each other with sword and shield.
A blustery autumn wind was blowing in. Across the yard, some squire made a pass at the quintain and sent the crossarm spinning. The cheers were being led by Margaery Tyrell and her hens. A lot of uproar for very little, Cersei thought. You would think the boy had won a tourney. Then she saw it was Tommen on the mare, clad all in gilded plate.
The queen had little choice but to don a smile and go see her son. She reached him as Ser Loras helped him from his mount. When he removed his helmet, Tommen was puffy and sweating. "Did you see?" he was asking Ser Loras. "The visor is too small, I couldn't tell. Did I do it right, Ser Loras?"
"A pretty sight," said Osmund Kettleblack.
"You have a better seat than me, sire," put in Ser Dermot.
Tommen's face darkened a shade. "So, in not as many words, I made a fool of myself?" Ser Dermot sputtered. "I have seen you ride, ser. And so I can only assume you mean to either flatter or mock me. Mocking aside - you are no fool, far as I can tell - I must tell you I detest undeserved flattery." Tommen sighed heavily, "Well, at least I broke the lance. Ser Loras, did you hear it?"
"As loud as a crack of thunder," he said. "You did well, Your Grace, though you have far yet to go. You must ride every day, till every blow lands hard and straight, and your lance is as much a part of you as your arm."
"I want to," he said. "But I think the sword will stay my priority for now."
"You were glorious." Margaery bent down slightly and pressed a firm kiss on the King's cheek, and put an arm around him. "Brother take care," she warned, "my gallant husband will be unhorsing you in a few more years, I think."
"When he is a man grown," Cersei cut in.
Their smiles withered and wilted. One of Margaery's little cousins was the first to bend the knee, and the rest soon followed, save for the little queen and her brother. Tommen did not seem to notice the frost in the air. "Mother, were you watching?" he asked almost happily. He leaned forwards, and Cersei obligingly leaned down a little to let him kiss her cheek. "I broke my lance on the shield, and the bag never touched me!" he said with just the slightest hint of pride.
"You did very well, Tommen," she assured him, "I would expect no less of you. Jousting is in your blood. One day you shall rule the lists like your father."
"No man will dare stand before him," Margaery said with a coy smile. "But I never knew that King Robert was so accomplished with the joust. Pray tell, Your Grace, what tourney's did he win? What knights did he unseat? I know I should like to hear of King Robert's victories."
A flush crept up Cersei's neck. The girl had caught on. Her fool husband had been a middling jouster at best. During tourneys he much preferred the melee. It had been Jaime she had been thinking of when she spoke. It's not like me to forget myself.
"The big one," Tommen broke in, eyeing her as he spoke. "The Tourney of the Trident, where he unseated Prince Rheagar and named my lovely mother his queen of love and beauty."
"Quite right," Cersei nodded, sparing Margaery no room for response. "Ser Osmund, help my son with his armour, if you would be so good. Ser Loras, a word?" The Knight of the Flowers looked to his King, but found no solace. He had little choice but to follow at her heels like a puppy. She waited for him at the steps. "Whose notion was that?" she asked.
"Mine," he admitted. "Ser Tallad and Ser Dormet were riding at the quintain, and the King seemed interested by it, so I suggested he might like a turn."
Surely, she thought, he means to irk me.
"That horse was much too large for him," she snapped. "What if he had fallen off? What if the sandbag had smashed his head in?"
"Bruises and bloody lips are all part of being a knight."
"I begin to see why your brother is cripple," she said, watching with hidden glee as the smile slid clean off his face. "Perhaps my brother failed to explain your duties to you, ser. You are here to protect my son from his enemies. Training him for knighthood is not your calling nor, for that matter, is it Ser Balon's. His training rests in the hands of the master-at-arms."
"The Red Keep has none since Aron Santagar was slain," Loras said. "His Grace is old enough, and eager to learn. And we serve at his pleasure, and follow his commands without question. He is old enough to be a squire. Someone has to teach him. And so when he commands us to teach, we teach."
Someone will, she thought, dripping with venom, but not you.
Cersei saw how tight the bonds grew between squires and the knights they served. She did not want Tommen growing close with Loras Tyrell. "I have been remiss," she finally said. "With all the goings-on, I have neglected to name a new master-at-arms. I shall rectify that error at once."
"Your Grace will not find any man half so skilled with sword and lance as I."
Humbled, is he?
"No," she said. "But I can find a woman. Dame Brienne, was it?" Loras clenched his teeth so hard Cersei thought they might shatter. "Tommen is your king, not your squire. You are to fight for him and die for him. No more."
She left him there as she stormed off and made for Maegor's holdfast alone. Where am I to find a new master-at-arms? she wondered as she climbed the steps. Having refused Ser Loras, she could not turn to another on the Kingsguard - that would only pour salt on the wound, enough to anger Highgarden. Her father would not stand for that. Ser Tallad? Ser Dormet? There must be someone. It was a pity the Hound had gone rabid. Tommen had always been frightened of Sandor's rough voice and burned face, and his scorn would be the perfect antidote to Tommen's new defiant streak.
Dreams or no, he was still her son. I waited, and so can he. I waited half my life. I will not be robbed of my hour in the sun.
Aron Santagar was Dornish, she suddenly recalled. I could send to Dorne. Centuries of bloodshed lay between Highgarden and Sunspear, and Prince Oberyn had left in high enough spirits. Yes, a Dornishman might suit my needs admirably. They must have some good swords. Then she remembered Arianne Martell was here, and quickly soured on the idea. The slut will have the man in her bed in half a moon. No, not a Dornishman...
When she entered her solar, she found Lady Merryweather chuckling with Jocelyn and Dorcas. "What is so amusing?" she asked.
"The Redwyne twins," said Taena. "They have fallen for Lady Margaery. They used to fight over who would be Lord of the Arbor. Now both of them want to join the Kingsguard, just to be near the little queen. Now Ser Horas has left he claims in his letters to pine for her from afar, from the Arbor."
Cersei laughed. "The Redwynes have always been known more for their freckles than their wits." Still, it was a useful little thing to know. Horror and Slobber, in bed with the queen... Cersei smiled. Does she like freckles, I wonder? "Dorcas," she commanded, "fetch me Osney Kettleblack."
Dorcas blushed, curtsied, and then rushed off. When she was gone, Taena turned to her with a quizzical look. "She blushed up a storm," Taena noted.
"She fancies our Ser Osney," Cersei said, hiding her smile behind her glass as she sipped her wine. "She likes his scars, I think."
Taena's eyes shone with a hidden mischief. "Just so. Scars make a man look exciting."
"And yet," Cersei said, "you married Lord Orton. We all love him, of course, but..."
Taena laughed. "My husband is more comforting than exciting, this much is true. Yet, and I hope Your Grace will not think less of me for saying so, I did not come quite a maid to his bed."
You are all whores in the Free Cities, Cersei thought, aren't you?
...
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