Chương 49: Interlude - The Three Queens II

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms Cersei sat in her usual seat, dressed in crimson silk and gold thread despite the wretched heat of the early afternoon. The Lannister banner above their box hung limp in the still air. Below them, the tilt lane stretched long and dusty, raked smooth by servants who had undoubtedly hoped for a larger audience than the one that had actually appeared. The king's chair sat empty beside her.

"This is intolerable," she muttered, fanning herself with a silk fan painted with golden lions.

"I am being roasted alive in this box while Robert had the sense to stay inside the Rock's cool stone halls. Tell me again, father, why I must endure this?" Her father did not answer immediately. Lord Tywin Lannister sat to the empty throne's other side, his green eyes fixed on the tilt lane below. He did not even bother looking at her. Dressed in Lannister colors instead of his usual white cloak, Jaime sat on the other side of their father, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

His leg from the melee still pained him, Cersei knew. He had refused milk of the poppy this morning, complaining that it dulled his senses, and now he shifted in his chair every few minutes as if seeking some position that would not aggravate the wound.

"Father?" Cersei tried, more for the sake of filling the silence than anything.

"Surely Robert's absence makes my own attendance pointless. I do not understand why I had to be dragged out here at all."

"You are a Lannister, Cersei." Tywin's voice could've sliced through metal. His eyes had not moved from the lane, but his tone left no room for further argument.

"You are also the queen, useless as that title may often seem in your case. Have you not already cost this house enough this week?" Cersei seethed silently, lowering her fan to her lap. She would not give her father the satisfaction of an outburst. Not here, not in public, where the few nobles still in attendance threw occasional wary glances up at the royal box. But the words burned in her chest like coals. How dare he speak to her so? She was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

She had given Robert his heir and his second son. She had endured that drunken brute's rough handling for years, had smiled through every infidelity, had managed the running of his court while he hunted and whored. And her thanks for all of this loyalty was her own father's scorn? She blamed his foul mood on the Tyrells, of course. The whole lot of them had ridden out of Casterly Rock at dawn, their banners flying defiantly as they made for the road back to Highgarden.

Lord Mace at the head of his column with his ridiculous green cloak billowing. Lady Olenna in her carriage no doubt cackling at the trouble she had caused. The children waving to common-born well-wishers as if they were leaving some triumph rather than fleeing in disgrace. Upjumped stewards, all of them. Cersei had already raged about them to Jaime that morning when they had taken their breakfast together, and he had said nothing.

Just watched her with those green eyes that had grown so strange and quiet since the trial. Her brother was not himself these past two days. The fall from his horse against that man in the joust, perhaps. Or the leg wound from the melee. Or something else, something deeper that Cersei could not quite identify. The thought of the trial made her glance down at the sparse crowds gathered for the finals. Pathetic. Truly pathetic.

The finals of the jousting, the culmination of two weeks of celebration after the great victory over the Greyjoy Rebellion, and the stands sat half-empty. Where two days ago thousands had crowded the hillocks to watch the grand melee, now only a few hundred souls had bothered to come. And where the noble stands had been packed shoulder to shoulder with lords and ladies in their finery, now perhaps a third of the seats sat occupied. The cause was obvious enough. The Tyrells and most of the Reach had left.

Many of the Vale lords had gone with them in solidarity, including Lord Yohn Royce. The Riverlands contingent was much diminished. Even some of the Stormlanders had departed early. But it was more than that. There had been grumblings all day from the smallfolk about the fate of the Woodsman Knight. The talk of the streets and taverns and market squares of Lannisport had been of nothing else for two days. It seemed all anyone wanted to speak of was his trial and the unfairness of it all.

Cersei sneered behind her fan. The fools. Justice was whatever those with power decided. The smallfolk were always so quick to fall in love with whichever pretty face the gods threw their way—a tournament champion, a handsome knight, a rebellious lord. They knew nothing of how the world truly worked. They knew nothing of how kingdoms were ruled. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

It was only luck that the hedge knight from the Reach had escaped her justice. Pure, undeserved luck. Had she known he could fight as he had… She pushed the thought away. No matter. She would have other opportunities. Ser Galad of Dunstonbury was not the king of anywhere. He was a wandering knight, exposed to all the dangers of the road. Bandits could find him. Accidents could befall him. Hired blades could be paid to do what an entire trial of seven had failed to accomplish.

And if it were up to her, she would have already seized a few of those spreading the story of his trial and hanged them in the middle of the tourney grounds. That would teach the smallfolk to keep their mouths shut. An example had to be made. A queen who allowed her enemies to be glorified before her own people was no queen at all. But her father had forbidden it. Let the talk die down on its own, he had said. Repression now will only feed the flames. She did not agree, but she did not argue.

There had been no arguing with Lord Tywin Lannister lately. Down in the tilt lane, the trumpets blared their announcement. Ser Barristan Selmy emerged first from his end of the lane, his white armor gleaming, his matching white cloak billowing behind him. He sat his white courser with the easy grace of a man who had been jousting since before Cersei was born. The crowd, what there was of it, cheered enthusiastically. From the opposite end came Ser Jorah Mormont.

The northern lord wore his armor of dark mail and plate with a black bear rampant on his green surcoat. His horse was a heavy destrier, dark as pitch, snorting and pawing at the sand. The lances dropped. The horses charged. Splinter flew when Ser Barristan broke his lance cleanly against Mormont's shield. The northern lord was rocked backward in his saddle, his entire body twisting from the impact. For a moment Cersei thought he might fall.

But he caught himself at the last instant, his knees gripping his horse's flanks with desperate strength, and barely managed to keep his seat. Jaime frowned beside her.

"Something is wrong with Mormont," he said quietly.

"His riding is terrible compared to the last time I saw him. Like he can barely keep himself in the saddle." Cersei knew and cared little for men throwing themselves against each other above horses, but even she could see a man riding like that had no chance against Ser Barristan.

"You didn't think he could do what he did and suffer no consequences, did you?" their father asked without looking at either of them. Jaime turned sharply to their father, his eyes widening.

"What did you do?" Tywin Lannister did not answer. He merely watched as the two knights wheeled their horses around at opposite ends of the lane, preparing for the next pass. Cersei studied her father's profile. The slight tightening at the corner of his mouth was the only sign of his satisfaction, and she felt a smile of her own beginning to form behind her fan. The trumpets blared again and the horses took off. This pass, Ser Barristan brought down the northern knight cleanly.

His lance struck Mormont square in the chest, and the bear knight tumbled from his saddle to crash into the sand in a shower of dust and broken lance pieces. There were sparse cheers in the crowd, not the roar that had greeted the great moments of earlier days. Ser Barristan rode a victory circle along the lane before reining in before the royal box. He removed his helm and bowed deeply from his saddle. His white hair was damp with sweat.

"The match is yours, Lord Commander," Cersei called down to him.

"A magnificent victory."

"You honor me, Your Grace." But she barely listened to his response. She was watching her father, who had risen from his seat at last. Tywin Lannister's face was as composed as ever, but Cersei could read him better than most. There was something there. Some quiet victory.

"What did you do, father?" Jaime pressed again, his voice low.

"Nothing you ought to concern yourself with," Tywin said. He turned away from the tilt lane, smoothing his crimson doublet.

"Rest assured, House Mormont will know that Lannisters pay their debts." He swept from the royal box without further ceremony, his guards falling into step behind him. Cersei watched him and allowed herself a smile. So her father had not gone soft after all. She had begun to wonder, after the way he had simply allowed Tyrells to leave Casterly Rock without consequence, after the way he had dismissed the Woodsman's trial as something that should be quietly buried.

She had begun to fear that age had finally dulled the Lion of the West. But no. The lion still had teeth. They had simply been hidden behind his careful patience. Mormont would learn the cost of attacking Jaime from behind in the melee, however inadvertent his actions had appeared. Lannisters paid their debts, both the kind paid in gold and the kind paid in blood. Cersei lifted her fan again and resumed her cooling movements. The heat seemed less oppressive now. Even the half-empty stands seemed less of an insult.

One day, she promised herself, she would punish Ser Galad of Dunstonbury for what he had done to her. For the way he had looked at her with pity in her own chambers. For the way he had rejected her offer of the white cloak despite his low birth. For the way he had cut down her hand-picked champions in that courtyard, making a mockery of all her careful planning. Yes. One day she would have her vengeance. Her justice.

She would punish him the same way her father would no doubt punish Jorah Mormont and his piss-poor northern house. Slowly. Carefully. From shadows where he could not see the strike coming until it was too late. The thought of his beautiful violet eyes widening with sudden understanding, of his perfect face contorting with the realization that his death had come for him at last, brought such pleasure to Cersei that she had to look away from the dispersing crowd to hide her expression. She would not forget him.

Not ever. Not for one single day for the rest of her life.