The wench in front of her was with dirty blond hair, most of it looking chewed. Her eyes were pale blue and shifty, darting at paintings, exhibited swords or intricate designs on walls and ceilings. She had made no attempt to make her saggy teats erect or wear anything other than garbs of grey, Cersei Lannister noticed.
It was Qyburn who began the conversation. “Mhaegen,” he said. “I hope I am saying that correctly.”
‘Mhaegen’ silenced him with a look of utter disdain. Cersei would have loved to return the glare, but instead, played the part of the Queen. “We are so very charmed with your presence,” she said, scorn oozing like the smell of shit from the commoner. “We hope your stay at the Red Keep will be a pleasant one.”
“I was thinking the same,” she replied with equal irony and a broken, discordant accent. “If not, friends in the capital will hear of it.”
Wildly, Cersei thought to test that claim. If she decided to throw her in Ser Gregor’s cells, she would like to know how the Righteous Saviors would be privy to that information. A part of her, at least, wanted to hint at the threat. Would it really be unbecoming to casually mention that Ser Gregor Clegane was short of his playthings?
She stopped herself in time. By Qyburn’s accounts, Mhaegen was a fanatic of the Seven, bred from the bins of Flea Bottom, who had garnered an audience with passionate homilies. After Cersei burned her faith to ashes, she rose in the ranks of the Righteous Saviors. Circumstances meant she managed to stumble upon power like warriors find whores during war. Giving her a place on the Small Council was the only way to pacify the people.
After she left, Qyburn turned to Cersei. “‘Master of Men?’” he said, worried. “I suppose you intend to keep her as a puppet, but we cannot underestimate what happens when foolish people are given power.”
“No, we cannot,” she replied coldly. “Qyburn, I realize the strain I have put you under has been burdensome, but rest assured you will no longer be asked to perform them. You can continue to work on your corpses and potions. I will let you know if I have need of your services. Oh, and may I have your badge.”
“Your… Grace?”
Qyburn’s protests were timid and quick, and each weak argument that he gave simply reminded Cersei how unworthy he was of the badge with golden fingers. After the battle at the Twins they were sixty-thousand strong, including ten-thousand men of Arryn. Some of them would be garrisoned in Riverrun on their march south, in an attempt to slow Daenerys Targaryen’s path. Ellaria Sand was snaking from Dorne with twenty-thousand men. Euron’s whereabouts were unheard of.
Times were bleak, and she needed an experienced, slick and proven mind to become her Hand and win her this war. Besides, Lord Petyr Baelish had delivered on his ambitious promises, and a Lannister always paid their debts.
*
Comments