Chương 35

Cersei Lannister The queen's chambers were lit by dozens of candles, their warm light reflecting off polished mirrors and gilded furniture. Cersei had chosen this room carefully when they first arrived at the Rock. Her childhood chambers, filled with memories of when the world had seemed limitless, when she and Jaime had been everything to each other. The walls were hung with Myrish tapestries showing golden lions hunting through crimson forests.

A fire crackled in the hearth despite the summer warmth, because she liked the way firelight played across her skin. She stood before her mirror, examining herself with a critical eye. The deep crimson silk dress clung to her curves perfectly, its generous neckline displaying the swell of her breasts. A golden necklace sat high against her pale skin, the lion pendant resting in the valley between. Her golden hair had been arranged in an elaborate style by her handmaiden, cascading over one shoulder in artful waves.

She looked magnificent. She knew it. Men had been falling at her feet since she was twelve. Knights, lords, and kings. One common-born woodsman would be no different. A knock came at the door. Cersei arranged her features into a confident smile, the one that had melted stronger men than this.

"Enter." Ser Meryn Trant opened the door, his homely face twisted in its usual sneer.

"Ser Galad of Dunstonbury is without, Your Grace."

"Let him in." A pause. She heard voices in the corridor, Ser Meryn's tone sharp. Then, almost growling: "The man is not willing to part with his sword, Your Grace." Cersei's smile did not falter. Not yet, she thought.

"Tell Ser Galad he may enter with his sword. What have I to fear of a knight of such good standing?." When the door opened fully and Ser Galad stepped into her chambers, Cersei quickly forgot about the sword. The sight of him so close sent a shock through her that she had not been prepared for. He was even more beautiful than she had expected. She had seen him from a distance at the tourney, helmetless after his victory, but proximity made the difference.

His skin was tanned from the sun, his jawline sharp enough to cut. Dark hair kept shorter than most men, wind-swept and lustrous. And those eyes, violet as amethysts, framed by dark lashes that any woman would envy. How had she not noticed him during the feasts? He must have been there, sitting among the Tyrell contingent, but she had been too focused on other matters. Too blind to see what had been right before her.

"Your Grace." He bowed low, his movements graceful despite the sword at his hip.

"I came as summoned. To what do I owe such honor?" His voice was pleasant, cultured despite his common origins. Not the rough accent she had expected.

"There is no need to be so stiff, ser." Cersei gestured for him to rise, her smile warm and inviting.

"Please. I know that the relationship between you and my family did not have the best start." She moved closer, letting her skirts whisper across the floor.

"But I wish to extend a hand of friendship now. First, by congratulating you on your victory over my brother, as well as against Ser Lyle Crakehall and Lord Royce. I heard they were magnificent bouts." The knight's face remained stone-still.

"Thank you, Your Grace." That was it. Just those three words, delivered in that same pleasant but completely neutral tone. Cersei felt a flicker of surprise. She had dressed in her best, had arranged the lighting to flatter, had prepared her most winning smile. But the knight had not looked anywhere except her eyes. Not once had his gaze dropped to the neckline of her dress, not once had she seen the familiar hunger that usually clouded men's faces when they looked at her.

For a long moment, she only stared back at those violet eyes, which looked unflinchingly back at her as if she were not the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. As if she were just another woman. And despite herself, she felt something clench deep inside her—a mixture of intrigue and irritation. She swallowed, forcing the smile back onto her face.

"Do you know who you will be riding against in the final day?" The knight nodded.

"There are only four of us now. Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Jorah Mormont, and Lord Jon Umber. I am to face Ser Barristan first."

"An unenviable task for any knight." Cersei took another step closer, watching for any reaction.

"But for the man who bested my brother, perhaps not an impossible one."

"Ser Barristan will be a challenge," he said simply. Silence stretched between them. Cersei had expected him to be a stuttering mess by this point—overwhelmed by her beauty, by the privilege of a private audience with the queen, by the scent of her perfume that filled the chamber. The fact that he was not threw her off in a way that she was not used to. A way that was not entirely unpleasant, to her surprise. She walked closer still, close enough that her skirts nearly brushed his boots.

"I have heard a rumor you were a woodsman before you became a knight. Tell me, ser, is that true?" Letting her voice drop to something softer, more intimate, she added, "Looking at you now, I find it hard to believe." His eyes tracked her movement but he did not step back. Did not blink.

"It is no rumor, Your Grace. I am what I am." Cersei's lips curved up. She reached out and took his hand in both of hers, turning it palm-up. His hand was large with long, elegant fingers, but the skin was rough with calluses—the kind earned from years of hard labor, not the soft hands of a noble playing at swordwork in a practice yard. Looking down at her holding his hand, the knight frowned slightly. Cersei enjoyed that—finally, a reaction.

"By your hands, I believe you. A remarkable rise. One to be admired." She traced one fingertip along his palm, feeling the rough texture.

"From a mere woodsman to a knight winning glory in war and tourneys. You even wield a Valyrian steel sword now." Glancing up at him through her lashes, she asked sweetly, "May I see it, Ser Galad?" The man hesitated only for a second before releasing her hand and taking Nightfall from his belt. He held it before him, pulling it partially from its sheath to show the rippled steel beneath. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The blade was striking, the pattern seeming to dance in the candlelight like water flowing over stones. Dark metal with silver highlights that caught and threw back the flame. A beautiful sword for a beautiful man, Cersei thought. A shame her son had need of it. Then again, perhaps she could resolve this situation even more elegantly than she had originally planned. Why settle for just the sword when she could have both?

"It is magnificent," she breathed.

"It suits you far better than it would any Ironborn reaver."

"Thank you, Your Grace. But Ser Harras was a formidable enemy. A worthy wielder for such a blade."

"Of course, of course." Cersei waved a hand dismissively. She moved to stand beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, pretending to examine the sword more closely.

"Have you ever thought that, now that you hold a Valyrian steel sword, you could serve a greater cause?" Turning to look up at him, she let admiration fill her voice.

"A woodsman turned knight is a good story, ser. But a woodsman turned kingsguard? They would write songs about you, Ser Galad. All the maidens in the kingdoms would swoon seeing you in white." She stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his scent—manly, like horse and leather, with something underneath that was purely him. Placing one hand on his chest, she felt solid muscle beneath the linen of his shirt.

"I would love to see you in white myself, ser." She batted her eyelashes at him, tilting her face up toward his, lips parted slightly. The knight stepped back. The movement was smooth, not rushed, but it put distance between them as surely as a wall. When Cersei looked up again, it was not to the same violet eyes as before. They seemed to have darkened somehow, grown colder, though his expression remained perfectly controlled.

"The offer is appreciated, Your Grace. But I have no intention of becoming a kingsguard." His voice was calm, almost gentle.

"My answer is the same to you as it was to Lord Tywin, as it was to Lord Royce earlier today." Cersei stood frozen for a moment, stunned by the rejection. Men did not reject her. Men did not step away from her touch. They fell over themselves for a chance at what she was offering.

"Do you realize what I am offering you, ser?" Her voice came out sharper than intended.

"I am the queen. Which woodsman in the history of the world has ever been granted such... connection with royalty?" Then she saw it. The way he looked at her shifted again. It was not indifferent, as before, or hardened. It was worse. It was pity. This man, this no-name knight who had been chopping wood for his supper a year ago, pitied her.

"Will that be all, Your Grace?" he asked. Cersei's face twisted into a scowl. How dare he? How dare he look at her like that, like she was some desperate woman throwing herself at him instead of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms bestowing an incredible honor?

"There is a kingsguard outside that door," she hissed, her voice low and venomous.

"A word from me would have you seized and thrown into the deepest, darkest dungeon in my father's castle. Do you understand that?" He did not answer. Just stared back at her with that same expression, something that looked almost like benevolent disgust, as if he were a maester observing a particularly unpleasant specimen. Fire filled her chest. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

"Do you understand me, woodsman?" She repeated, the title coming out like a curse.

"I could say you attacked me in my own rooms. That I invited you here to congratulate you on your victories and you—a lustful lowborn knight—could not hold back and assaulted me." She let out a sharp laugh.

"Who would they believe? You?" Another laugh, higher, more brittle.

"Do not fool yourself about who you are and where you belong."

"I am not the fool in this room, Your Grace." His voice remained calm and soft despite everything. Despite her threats, despite her rage, despite the way her hands had clenched into fists at her sides. It only made her madder.

"If you wish to have me arrested, then do so at once and let us end this farce." He met her eyes steadily.

"But be sure to choose your champion wisely. For though I may be a woodsman, I am also a knight—and as is my right, I will defend my innocence with steel." Cersei could only stare at him, mouth falling open. He was threatening trial by combat. Calmly, politely, but unmistakably threatening it. And somehow, just by looking at him now, she knew it. Knew with absolute certainty that, if it came to that, he would win. He waited for another ten seconds of silence, his expression never changing.

Then he inclined his head in a small bow.

"Your Grace." And he left. The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded like thunder in Cersei's ears. For a long moment, she simply stood there in the middle of her beautiful chambers, surrounded by candlelight and luxury and the scent of her expensive perfume. Then the rage took her. She grabbed the nearest wine cup and hurled it at the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash. Another followed. Then a plate. Then the pitcher.

She swept her hand across the table, sending everything crashing to the floor—cups and goblets and the remains of the light supper she had arranged but never served. How dare he? How dare he reject her, pity her, threaten her? She was Cersei Lannister. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The most beautiful woman in Westeros. Men killed for a chance at what she had offered him, and this—this common-born nobody had looked at her like she was nothing.

By the time someone knocked on her door again, some half hour later, Cersei had broken every piece of pottery she could find. Shards of expensive ceramic littered the floor around her feet. Her chest heaved with exertion and rage.

"What?" she snarled. A maid cracked the door open and stepped inside, her face pale and frightened.

"Your Grace, I... I have news. The king's... that is, there is a girl. The one His Grace has been..." She swallowed hard.

"She is with child, Your Grace. And it can only be the king's." For a moment, Cersei could only stare at the cowering girl. Then the rage that had been burning in her chest transformed into something cold and sharp and calculating. She crossed the room in three strides and slapped the maid hard enough to send her stumbling.

"If you ever tell anyone about this, I will have your tongue cut out and your privates torn off. Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes, Your Grace!" The girl fled, the door slamming behind her. Cersei stood in the wreckage of her chambers, breathing hard. Then slowly, deliberately, she began to smile. Robert's bastard. Growing in the belly of some castle wench. Another stain on the Lannister name, another reminder of her husband's infidelity. But also... an opportunity. A way to rid herself of two inconveniences in one move. She walked back to the door and opened it.

Ser Meryn Trant still stood guard outside, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the destruction visible behind her.

"Gather Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Amory Lorch," she said, her voice perfectly calm now.

"Tell them their queen has need of their services."

"At once, Your Grace." xxx Later that night, after the small feast she attended only because it was expected of her—and where she notably did not spot Ser Galad of Dunstonbury among the Reachmen present—Jaime came to her chambers. He looked beautiful in the candlelight, his golden hair gleaming, his green eyes warm with desire as they always were when he looked at her. He made love to her on her bed, whispering how much he loved her, how no woman could compare.

But when he was above her, moving inside her, it was not his green eyes she saw in her mind. And when she reached her peak, crying out and clutching at his shoulders, it was not of Jaime she thought. It was of a common-born knight who had looked at her with pity and walked away. And that, more than anything else that had happened that night, filled her with a rage that burned hotter than dragonfire.