Cersei Lannister patience’s had worn thin. Days after she decided to heed Qyburn’s advice and lessen the patrol of gold cloaks on the streets, flyers began to circulate among the people of King’s Landing. When the City Watch held some of the commoners distributing them – sketches of Jaime fucking her from the back while Robert Baratheon took her from the front – they refused to disclose the names of originators of the crime, those probably connected to the Righteous Saviors.
The circulators were lined up in front of Cersei, chained like Bolton flayed men, while she sat on the Iron Throne with Qyburn standing beside. The people were present as well, as per Cersei’s express commands. “Are you certain about this, Your Grace?” Qyburn was saying in a low voice. “If you choose to wait, by the next moon I could give you the names of the people responsible. That may be a better scheme.”
“Schemes do not concern me anymore,” she hissed. “My plans and traps in the past years formed a Faith Militant and killed my children. It was only when I burned the Sept of Baelor did I defeat my enemies. These people do not deserve diplomacy, they deserve fear. If they are not frightened enough into obedience, I must do my job better.”
“So be it.” Upon receiving the signal, Hallyne the Pyromancer set to work. While he dispensed justice, Cersei and Qyburn conversed in low tones.
“Have the Freys finished their bloody battle yet?” Cersei told Qyburn. “Stark or Targaryen, whoever prevails must not find easy passage from the north.”
“I am afraid I bring ill news on that front, Your Grace,” Qyburn replied. “My spies tell me that the Tullys have somehow won the war at Seagard, and that the trident lords have named Ser Edmure their king. They have hence returned to the Twins. If we offer them terms of alliance, Edmure is certain to refuse.”
Cersei was angered. She knew she ought to have consolidated on the Riverlands after Walder Frey’s murder, but Jaime had advised her against it. The day my brother lost his hand, he also did his wits. Stark, Tully, Arryn… the bastard king could build an alliance of his own if he wished. “We will need sellswords to recover lost lands.”
“We will,” Qyburn agreed, “but I am no expert in that regard.”
Qyburn was beginning to vex her. I need more men, able men, in this court. “What about the dragons? Have you figured out a way to stop them, or is nothing your area of expertise?”
Qyburn’s chuckle was defensive, but reassuring. “I would be grateful if Your Grace maintains patience. The making of the ballista is in progress; it should be ready when the time for war arrives. Speaking of which, Euron Greyjoy sends a raven.”
Cersei was startled. “And?”
Qyburn tried to maintain the tranquility in his voice, but Cersei could hear the joy. “It is done.”
As chained men burned to ashes in front of the Iron Throne, Cersei’s smile was wide. The smoke filled the room and made horrified commoners cough violently, but to Cersei it smelled of victory. Fleetingly, she pictured Tyrion Lannister tied with chains, roasting in perdition. Her smile grew wider.
*
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