Summary:
a quick filler chapter, from the perspective of everyone's favourite queen regent.
Cersei stared out at the city of King's Landing, now blanketed in snow. She hated winter; the last time the season had been upon her, she was a young wife, already abused and forgotten by her husband. Joffrey had been conceived only three years before her last winter had begun; she remembered how gleeful she had been, both because she was deceiving Robert, and because she had thought that she and Jaime's child could only be a perfect creature, a beautiful and clever thing with Lannister curls, Jaime's wit, and Tywin's ambition.
Out of habit, she petted her hair. It was curling below her chin now, but it seemed frailer than her hair had been before it was shaved. I am older every day, she thought with resentment. Not for the first time since her walk, Cersei thought of Maggy and her poison prophecy. A queen, younger and more beautiful...younger, and more beautiful...
She hated thinking on it, but she could not help but compile a list in her head of the possible usurpers that Maggy could have been speaking of. She was terribly aware of Margaery Tyrell-had been ever since the doe-eyed whore arrived in King's Landing-but now there was not one, but two pretty Stark wolf-bitches sniffing around her country, plotting against her. Reports had come in telling that Sansa Stark was alive and had been hidden away in the Eyrie for years, some pet of Petyr Baelish's, and now her younger sister was traipsing about the land with a bastard host of wild Essosi men, yapping about how she was Queen in the North.
Cersei tried to remember Arya Stark. She recalled a skinny, annoying thing with tangled hair and crooked teeth. The child had been more boy than girl, and Cersei knew that if the noisy hellion had belonged to Tywin, he would have slapped her so hard in the mouth that she spat blood. She could never be a queen, Cersei thought. Seven hells, Tyrion was more queenly than she.
Still, Cersei worried her nails with her teeth. All the stories told of a beautiful girl with Stark colouring who wore boiled leather and a braid down her back. Taena even confided to her that the servant lads were telling rumours about how any man who looked upon her in battle would be too stricken with love to act against her. A fool's rumour, Cersei knew. But it was still not good to have such things being said about her enemy.
I am beautiful still. It was true, at least. Though she did not have her thick mane of gold any more, and possibly never would, the men about her still looked on her with desire; Taena still sought her bed in the evening, and though she had betrayed the Kettleblacks and they her, she caught Osmund's dark eyes following her when she walked about the Keep.
Cersei despised sleep. Her dreams were never kind, and when she awoke in the morning, she was forced to remember how alone and helpless she truly was. Her son's regency had fallen to Mace Tyrell, his father-in-law, and now she was no more than the disgraced mother of a boy king, kept comfortable only because her sweet child still loved her. He is all I have left, she thought. Father is dead, murdered by my ugly, traitorous brother. Jaime has been missing for years, Joffrey has been dead for longer, and the foul fluxes of Dorne took Myrcella away, too. Cersei had wept for a day and a night when she heard the news about her daughter. Myrcella had been such a beautiful, clever girl, and her ties to House Martell would have made Tommen invincible. Without her, the Dornish had instead openly turned their allegiance to the traitorous fool who called himself the Dragon King. Myrcella Martell, she could have been. Her children would have had green eyes and dark hair. Absurdly, the idea made Cersei think of the time her father had proposed Oberyn Martell for her. Cersei had spurned the notion of ever sharing a bed with the licentious Dornishman; the gleam that came into his whore's eye whenever Cersei glanced at her was enough to put her off.
She had even lost Kevan; though his murderer was never caught, she knew it was the work of the Tyrells, trying to pull out her claws. Her uncle had been a clever and capable man, stern though he was, and he would have protected her and Tommen. Now I only have my son, she thought desperately. Only Tommen, Qyburn, and my sweet Ser Robert.
Her faithful knight could not have been a better Kingsguard. Silent and dutiful, he had slaughtered the Septon's champion and proved her innocence, and he continued to defend and protect her sweet son. Sometimes she was plagued with curiosity and the desire to look upon his face, but she feared that it might appal her, or even make her feel guilty. She knew whose head was beneath his shining helmet; thinking of that boy at Winterfell, young and lean and auburn-haired with snowflakes melting on his furs, Cersei felt both fury at the impudent rebel he had become and a queer longing for her own beautiful son, gone before his time. It is enough to know that the rebel got his due, she thought. I needn't sicken myself with the sight of his face.
She heard Taena stir behind her. "My queen," she called out, hoarse from sleep. "Why are you awake?"
"I was only thinking," Cersei replied. "I am coming back to bed."
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The Lone Wolf Returns(RECONTINUED)
Fiksi PenggemarUsed to be 'Death's No.1 Bitch' Arya has returned to seek vengeance upon all of Stark Enemies.