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CHAPTER EIGHT. ━━━━━━━━━ Look like th' innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, MACBETH ━━━━━━━━━
MARIAH HAS NOT EATEN TODAY. Perhaps that has been unwise. She tells herself that there has been no time, but the truth is that food had lost its savour in a world without Elia.
When they murdered her, she thinks, they killed me, too.
The air is filled with the loud, melodious, joyful ringing of the city bells. From the small hours of the morning, the street and squares leading to Visenya's Hill had started filling with people—artisans, merchants, women with their brood, whores, soldiers in their leather armours, old men and women with their sticks, adroit pickpockets who are now winning a year of wages alike are shoving each other, trying to find a better place. When the two wedding processions had come, they had been preceded from men at-arms cleaning the road—they couldn't have passed otherwise.
The King has arrived at the sept and is waiting for his bride to follow. The Great Sept of Baelor is drowning in light and colours and sounds as Cersei Lannister walks down the long staircase and across the floor on the arm of her father. This is what Tywin Lannister has wanted all along, what he has worked so relentlessly for. So that he could make his daughter Queen, Elia and her children had to die. He has suceeded. For now, Mariah thinks, heart beating wildly in her chest.
The light filters through the great windows of Baelor's Sept and falls against the marble floors in long, lazy stretches of gold. Cersei wears an airy confection constructed purely out of white samite and Myrish lace, her hair piled high on top of her head, so it seems as though she is wearing a crown already.
Everyone stares silently at the couple, at Robert's anxious frown and dark hair, so black that it looks almost blue; and Cersei's fair complexion and the ringlets of golden hair.
They look worthy of being king and queen, Mariah thinks in spite of herself. As did Elia and Rhaegar once. It did not save them. And it will not save those coming after them. I will make sure of it.
However, Cersei Lannister sat innocently in Casterly Rock when Elia was raped, when Rhaenys was butchered and Aegon crushed. Cruel and poised she may be, but a murderer? No.
Why should daughters always be made to pay off their father's debts? Robert Baratheon has to pay, there is no doubting that, but Lady Cersei is merely lucky to benefit from Tywin Lannister's deeds. And still, a dark voice inside her head whispers. Elia was innocent, too, and they killed her. Let the Old Lion have a taste of his own medicine. If the Gods had given Mariah more of Doran's nature and less of Oberyn's, she would have no such thoughts but the Gods were not so kind. Instead, as Lady Cersei turns to the crowd with a radiant smile and a golden crown atop her brow, Mariah prays for the girl's demise.
For the first time, she is able to catch something on Tywin Lannister's face. Though he looks proud, there is no warmth displayed on his features, only content. She wonders whether he ever thinks of Elia or Aegon or Rhaenys, cloaked in Lannister red. Unlikely, Mariah muses. Lions pride themselves on not caring for the opinion of sheep. But we are no sheep.
Mariah refuses to weep, even now, even as she feels the tears hot and thick at the back of her throat. She learned long ago to bite her tongue to stay the pain rather than show weakness, and she does not forget her lessons. A Princess of Dorne does not cry. A viper does not weep.
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AS JAIME MAKES HIS WAY to the dais, he can feel unkind eyes upon him. I'll wager they call me Kingslayer behind closed doors. No one dared, not openly, though he heard mutterings mingled with the music as he passes by the long rows of seats.
As the brother of the his bride and newly made queen, Robert Baratheon had released Jaime of his duties for the feast. He is seated beside his father in a seat of the highest honour, close to the royal couple. Yet Cersei ignores him, preferring to lavish her smiles on her husband. He watches her try to charm Robert with bright eyes as green as the rope of emeralds around her slim white neck.
As he looks around the hall, he finds that people still glance at him, quickly turning away as he locks eyes with them. Cowards, he thinks, seething, every single of them.
It is no surprise to see the Dornish guests seated closest to the raised platform that hosts the king and queen. Since their arrival to the capital, Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark have been trying their best to appease their anger. Until now, their efforts seem to be appreciated but Jaime knows that behind every smile, there could be a promise of blood. If it were Cersei they had raped and murdered, their heads would no longer sit on their necks. He has a feeling Dorne is aiming for a similar result, however long it would take them to achieve it.
Dressed in a gown of black silk and heavy black wool, Mariah Martell glows in the golden light of a thousand candles. A jeweled tiara gleams amidst her dark locks, its diamonds a perfect match for the pale blue of her eyes. A brilliant smile is plastered on her face and the highborn lords and ladies are fawning over her, yet her attire is still for mourning. She will not let the court forget what happened to Elia.
When Jaime recognises the well dressed man on her left side, his brows furrow in thought. Lord Varys is a dangerous man and his interest in Princess Mariah is curious. He surpresses the urge to sneek closer and listen to their conversation. The low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations would drown out every word, however close he'd get.
Soon enough, Jaime bids his leave. He doesn't want to witness the bedding under any circumstances. Though he feels many pairs of eyes on him as he takes his leave, Cersei spares him no glance. Back in his bedchamber, he sprawles in the window seat and tries not to imagine his sister with someone else. She is another man's wife, will bear another man's children, and what will that make him? The other half, the discarded piece—the trailing end of a thread. It makes his stomach twist and his fists clench, but he cannot bring himself to want to be with anyone else. She is me and I am her, he thinks, and we will walk this earth together until the Stranger takes us. For Jaime, it will always be them.
