Cersei POV
Jaime, my dear Jaime.
My eyes followed my brother as he rode into the tourney grounds, sunlight flashing against his golden armour with every movement of his horse.
Even covered in steel, there was no hiding the beauty of his face, though his helm concealed most of it.
He looked every bit the warrior he was, a lion among lesser men, carrying himself with the confidence of someone who had never once doubted that the world belonged beneath his feet.
Across the field, another knight waited beneath a green-and-gold banner. His shield bore the golden rose of House Tyrell, and his armour was polished almost as brightly as Jaime's.
Loras Tyrell of Highgarden.
A rose trying to stand against a lion.
The thought alone amused me.
"He's quite handsome, the Tyrell boy," Lady Dorna Swyft murmured from behind me, slowly fanning herself against the midday heat.
Uncle Kevan's wife had always had a soft tongue for other people's children. No doubt that was why her own son, Lancel, followed Robert around like an eager pup, desperate for even the smallest scrap of the king's attention.
I'd placed him as the king's cupbearer for a reason. The boy was useful, even if he was too stupid to realize he was being used.
"Handsome," I allowed, not bothering to turn toward her. "A little, perhaps. But compared to my brother? Not so much. Besides, a pretty face looks good on a woman. On a man, it hardly matters."
Aunt Dorna gave a nervous laugh, clearly unsure whether she was supposed to agree with me or apologize for praising another man's beauty.
She wisely chose silence.
My attention returned to the field.
A temporary arena had been raised on the open ground outside Harrenhal's blackened walls, its stands built in two long curves facing one another across the lists, the packed earth between them left bare and open at both ends where the horses would enter and charge.
The curve nearest us held the Crown's own section at its heart, banners of the lion and stag rising above it. Around it sat the lords of the crownlands.
The Riverlords sat just beside the crownlands' section to its left, and beyond them, further along the curve, the seating for the Northmen. On our right sat the lords of the Westerlands, and past them, at the far end of that same stand, the Stormlands.
Across the field, the second curve answered it in kind. Dorne held its leftmost end, the Reach seated beside them. On the opposite side of that same stand rose the Vale's falcon banners, where the lords of the Vale sat, and past them, at the furthest end, the men from the Iron Islands.
It was a fine piece of theatre, I had to admit, and placed well. The kingdoms whose loyalty was beyond question sat on the same side as the Crown, while those whose loyalty was less certain — the Reach, the Iron Islands, and Dorne sat opposite.
As for vale.
Jon Arryn might be Hand, but his son hated Joffrey, and so the Vale was no more loyal than the rest of them.
I'd arranged the seating accordingly. The Northmen and the Riverlords were loyal to Robert and would be to Joffrey in turn, and I hadn't needed to think twice about the Westerlands or the Stormlands. But the Vale is no longer loyal.
Thousands had come to watch. Lords and ladies sat beneath painted canopies while their household knights and servants crowded the plainer rows behind them.
No commoner had been allowed anywhere near the noble stands. I'd seen to that myself.
The realm's greatest lords had come to look upon their future king, and I would not have the sight cheapened by a crowd of unwashed rabble fighting for a glimpse of Joffrey.
The cheers from the Reach drew my attention across the field.
There she was.
Margaery Tyrell sat beneath her family's canopy, surrounded by her ladies. Her brown curls had been arranged carefully, and her gown was cut with precisely the sort of restraint that somehow drew more eyes than a woman's bare flesh ever could.
Even from this distance, I could hear her voice rising above the crowd.
"Go, Loras! Highgarden!"
That little whore's voice again.
Some of my ladies had whispered that the girl's beauty might one day rival mine. I had nearly laughed aloud the first time I'd heard it. Those women had clearly lost the ability to see.
I was Cersei Lannister, daughter of Tywin Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. There had been songs about my beauty. Men had crossed kingdoms simply to see me. Beauty enough to inspire poems, envy, and perhaps even wars.
And if time ever dared take that beauty from me, my daughter would inherit it. Even now, Myrcella was lovelier than Margaery Tyrell could ever hope to be, with all her ribbons, pretty curls, and borrowed charm.
As if sensing my gaze, Margaery turned her head. Our eyes met across the field.
She inclined her head politely, the smallest gesture possible, carefully balanced between modesty and something far more deliberate.
Mine are bigger, you cunty bitch, I thought, glancing down at myself with grim satisfaction.
Tomorrow I shall wear the emerald set.
Let her smile and cheer all she liked. She would be quieter soon enough.
"Ned! A thousand gold dragons on the Tyrell boy!" Robert's drunken voice dragged me from my thoughts.
I turned toward my husband and found him sitting beside Lord Eddard Stark, looking exactly as he always did these days. Fat, flushed, and buried beneath years of wine and indulgence, with what remained of the mighty body that had once won the throne now hidden beneath a swollen belly.
A great jar of beer was clutched in one hand while the other pointed dramatically toward the field.
Ned Stark sat beside him looking almost painfully uncomfortable.
"I don't make bets, Your Grace," Ned said patiently. "You know that."
Of course he didn't. To make bets, one needed money, and how much gold could these northern barbarians possibly have lying around to wager thousands of dragons?
"Don't give me that, Ned," Robert laughed, slapping his thigh. "You've got enough gold to lose a few thousand dragons and never feel it."
My jaw tightened.
Gold dragons he wanted to throw away so carelessly. Those dragons would come from my family's coffers, not his.
The Crown was nearly begging for coin thanks to Robert's endless feasts, debts, wars, gifts, and drunken stupidity.
We had gold at Casterly Rock, yes, but even that wealth had its limits.
If not for Father, Robert would have gone crawling to the Iron Bank or the Arryns for another loan years ago.
It still needled me to watch him speak of my family's fortune as though it were his own to waste.
"It's not about the gold, Robert," Ned said, shaking his head, looking faintly disgusted by the very thought. "It's the gambling itself."
He called the king by his own name. How dare he. Whatever I thought of Robert, he was still the king, and a king deserved respect.
What would this same solemn lord do, I wondered, when Joffrey sat that throne and he forgot himself in just the same way?
Robert only laughed. "Gods, you're still the same miserable bastard you were twenty years ago."
"I'm not miserable."
"You are." Robert lifted his jar and drained a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterward.
"Gambling is wrong no matter how you dress it up," Ned said. "A man gets used to it, and a gambler brings ruin to his family sooner or later."
"Besides," he added, almost as an afterthought, "if my wife found out about it, she might throw me into the cold river."
Robert nearly choked on his beer.
"Seven hells, Ned!" He burst into laughter, thumping his fist against his knee as though he'd just heard the funniest joke in the Seven Kingdoms. "You've got a sharp tongue for a man who never uses it."
"I've learned when to use it," Ned replied mildly.
"Gods help the fish in that river," Robert wheezed, nearly doubling over. "Your wife must be really proud of your tongue skills."
Robert stooped for a brief moment before laughing like a madman over his own dirty joke. Even Ned Stark smiled a little, though I could tell he was uncomfortable.
Behind them, young Lancel who'd been standing a little too close, hoping to be noticed — burst out laughing before he could stop himself, then flushed a deep, mortified red when he realized half the row had turned to look at him.
He busied himself refilling Robert's jar with far more attention than the task required.
He is as much a barbarian as the northerners he calls his friends, these men. Give them wine, weapons, and a room full of food, and suddenly they become boys again, laughing at their own jokes until they can barely breathe.
If women ruled, we would have been far better than these fools.
"Come, Ned," Robert said, still chuckling as he thrust another jar toward him. "Enjoy this. We paid a fortune for it."
We?
My eyes narrowed. Who was this "we"? It was my father's gold. My house's gold. We were footing the bill for this fat fool's beer, his tourney, his feasts, his borrowed glory.
And where was my father? He should at least be here to watch Jaime fight. What could possibly be more important than that?
My attention shifted toward the royal section.
Joffrey sat straight-backed in his seat, laughing brightly at the spectacle laid out before him. He looked every bit the Crown Prince, surrounded by nobles who had come to flatter him and knights who would fight for his amusement.
Soon, sweetling. Just a little more time, and you will rule over all of them with me by your side.
POV ends