"No," said Cersei in a tone that that left no room for argument. "I will not pull my son away from one harlot only to push him into the arms of another. And I will not hear of this again, do you understand?"
...
Taena nodded silently as Cersei let her fury fade and her focus move onto another matter.
It all began with Bronn, Cersei thought, sliding her second foot into the space between Taena's legs. That insolent sellsword allowed my son to see his dreams done.
"Have you heard anything from Stokeworth?" Cersei suddenly asked, still rubbing with the balls of her feet.
"Yes, Your Grace. Lady Lollys birthed a bastard son not long after her wedding, the one she had sired upon her during the riots."
"You mean when she was raped a half-hundred times?" Cersei asked nonchalantly, jabbing forwards with both her feet to elicit another yelp from Taena.
"Yes, Your Grace," Taena said in a shaky voice, seemingly no longer eager to speak on the subject. "Lady Tanda was thrown from her horse as well, it would seem, and shattered a hip. Maester Frenken remains hopeful, but Falyse does not seem to agree in her letters. She begs we pray for her mother."
How awfully convenient for the conniving sellsword, Cersei thought. "Poor dear," Cersei said without a hint of sincerity in her voice. "I will put her in my prayers the next time I visit the sept." Not that it will do much good. She will be dead by the end of the month. Women as old as Tanda Stokeworth do not survive shattered hips. Still, perhaps there is an opening here. If only Falyse could be convinced her mother's tumble was more assassination than accident...
"I am certain Falyse will be overjoyed to hear it," Taena said. "She has written from the road as well, of being accosted by men she described as 'lice-ridden ruffians bearing holy stars and sharpened sticks with evil looks in their eyes.' Falyse is safe, I am certain Your Grace will be relieved to know, and not far from the city now. Her husband warded the men away, but she nonetheless considers the encounter noteworthy."
"More sparrows, no doubt," Cersei said. "They are a pest."
"Yes, Your Grace," Taena readily agreed. "Though mercifully in Kings Landing they are the small in number and shrinking fast, such that they can no longer clog the streets and fill the air with the awful stench of their unwashed bodies."
Cersei nodded, but in her mind another idea intruded. The High Septon is Tyrion's man, she remembered. Hardly a trustworthy man to lead an institution as important as the Faith, even in light of Tyrion's supposed innocence.
The sparrows could have proved useful in that regard, but perhaps there is yet another way... Prince Oberyn's niece may have been too powerful to manipulate without fear of consequences, but perhaps his bastards daughters would prove more pliable. The one always in the white would work best with the High Septon, Cersei thought, especially if she is not quite as pure and pious as her manner of dress might suggest.
Cersei leaned back in the tub and sighed, stewing a little while longer in the now-tepid water, her toes working between Taena's legs. She could have stayed here a great deal longer if she so desired - plotting and scheming and pondering possibilities both outlandish and inevitable - but a small council meeting stood between her and rest. As tedious as they typically were, Cersei was determined not to miss a single one, lest she lose what little true power she still possessed.
"I must go," Cersei suddenly declared as she lifted herself from the rapidly-cooling bath. Water ran down her legs in little rivulets and trickled down her hair. "I need to dress for the small council, Taena. Come, dry me and help me don my gown."
Taena practically leapt from the water, and together the pair of them were dressed, though Cersei revelled in seeing Taena's eyes wander as she rubbed her down and helped lace her bejewelled bodice and do her hair up in elegant braids. Her new gown was green, though the emerald of her eyes instead of the earthy tones of the Tyrells, and made of a shimmering silk cut in tight at the waist and over the bust, with black Myrish lace around the hem and neckline. Myrish lace was expensive, but Cersei refused to bow to Tommen's commands to cut spending on such luxuries. It was a necessity for a queen to look her best at all times, after all.
Once she was dressed, Cersei left Taena with a flourish, headed once again for the small council chambers. Through the familiar halls and passages of Maegor's Holdfast she went, all the way to the small council chambers. Upon her arrival she brushed past Ser Osmund and passed through the doors to find her son sat at the head of the table, many of the lords already arrayed around him. Her father had found his place at the foot, a counterbalance to his king. Tyrion had wound up somewhere in the middle, sat between a very jolly-looking Lord Mace and a somewhat less enthusiastic Grandmaester Pycelle.
Cersei found her seat facing in direct opposition to her dwarf brother, shooting him a briefly venomous look before she turned her attention elsewhere.
Arianne, significantly, seemed absent from this particular session. Likely busy trying to bed the returning champion, Cersei thought. Or even better, his sister. She had become irritatingly close with Margaery's hens as of late. Another problem to look out for? It seemed likely. Perhaps there is something to Taena's suggestion, Cersei thought. That Dornish whore is good only for what lies between her legs. Yet if I can turn her lust into leverage...
Lying with a princess could surely be made into as significant a scandal for the young queen as lying with a knight. It would take only a single drunken tryst between the two of them to undermine Tommen's trust in his new wife. And even better, as Arianne was a princess Tommen could hardly make her disappear, as he had seemingly done to Ser Osney.
And with that thought brewing in her mind, the council began in earnest. It started with another unfortunately hearty congratulation of Lord Mace's accursed seed, and Cersei plastered a false smile over her face as she applauded the Fat Flower of Highgarden for his son's victory as he grinned from ear to ear with pride, red-faced from all the wine he had imbibed. Let the fat fool smile, Cersei thought. So long as that's all he's ever able to do.
Next came the issue of the Redwyne fleet, which was resolved swiftly enough.
A part of the fleet would remain at Dragonstone to maintain shipments of dragonglass to the Wall even as Lord Redwyne returned. On this issue Tommen was curiously unwilling to listen to any objections, though Cersei struggled to see the sense in it. Nevertheless, she considered it a non-issue. What use will a few shards of brittle stone do Stannis or that bastard son of Ned Stark? We have the true steel. And all the better if the Reach's strength is divided. It is only right that the crown should control the seas.
And finally there came the issue of the Faith.
The High Septon may have been Tyrion's man, a puppet, but that did not render him immune from the demands of the Most Devout. And the Most Devout would never accept simply forgiving the debts owed to them by the crown. And yet, many casks of wildfire had been found and removed from under the floor of the Great Sept of Baelor. Casks that the crown had kindly seen to the safe disposal of, acting in accordance with it's duty to serve as the protector of the Faith. In a sense, they all owed their lives to the Iron Throne.
And so, with the High Septon warily eyeing the rest of the council, Tommen calmly and politely began backing him into a corner. The High Septon offered wise words and worthless platitudes, but no matter how much he twisted and squirmed and tried to waggle his tongue, he was helpless to escape Tommen's carefully-woven web.
That boy has a way with words beyond me, Cersei thought as she watched him build his argument with an almost enviable effortlessness. I have just saved the city and your sept from the legacy of the last Targaryen king.
I am fighting to defend the Faith as the Warrior would have me do, against heathen pretenders who's greatest desires are to destroy you by burning or drowning. I am rebuilding Westeros at the command of the Smith and relieving the poor and the infirm of their burdens at the Mother's behest. All I ask of you is to help me in this. To help me better serve the Seven.
...
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