“Where is the Targaryen bitch now?”
They were all there. Littlefinger the Hand was the first to arrive. Qyburn sat a few seats away, silently repenting his relegation of power. Mhaegen the Maiden shamelessly chewed her hair with eyes alert. Dickon Tarly looked lost among this company, beside whom sat, disinterested, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It was the first time, since he had left for Highgarden, that she and Jaime were in the same room.
Cersei Lannister had spared no time in calling for her first Small Council. The day after her army returned from the Twins, she had sent Qyburn to round them together. The old fool had quickly obliged, hoping to curry favor with his queen again. You lost your chance, Qyburn, Cersei mused to herself, but I will let you think you still have one.
It was Qyburn who responded to her question swiftly. “The last we heard,” the Master of Whisperers said, “Queen Daenerys had crossed the Twins, but that was a long time ago. She may have reached close to Riverrun.”
Qyburn’s use of queen to Daenerys irked her, but Cersei let it slide. She needed to be less impetuous. “How many men do we hold at Riverrun?”
“Ten-thousand strong, Your Grace.” This time it was Littlefinger. “I say strong, but in truth Lord Yohn Royce has been left the weakest men Lannister and Arryn have to offer. We do not hope to defeat the Targaryen in the Riverlands, simply hold her. Perhaps we can cause their men damage, or her dragon.”
Cersei nodded at the singular use of dragon. They had recently learned that, whatever the reason, the number of Daenerys’ dragons had dwindled from three to one. “Good,” she said, realizing in time what Littlefinger was doing. He cannot escape with passing my orders as his wisdom. “You have followed my instructions well, Lord Hand,” she said pointedly, before turning to the commoner, who looked impatient. “Lady Mhaegen,” she managed with great strain, “do you bring any news?”
“Oh, only from the people?” she replied with unrepentant causticness. Every word the whore spoke reminded Cersei of Olenna’s vile mouth. “They are happy that House Arryn came with food and supplies,” she said, “but the Righteous Seven need more. We wish for the faith to be recognized by the Crown, and to anoint a High Septon who will be chosen by the public.”
For all her passion, Cersei found her demands feeble. “We understand your concerns,” she said, desperately trying to give her the courtesy of language. “The Crown will consent to these terms. The Lord Hand will meet with your, enthusiasts, shortly to decide the finer details.”
Mhaegen, seemingly satisfied, popped chewed hair back between her teeth. Littlefinger saw the silence as an opportunity. “You will be pleased to know, Queen Cersei,” he said, “that negotiations for the hiring of sellsword companies have been successful. We have forty-five thousand Lannisters and five-thousand men of Arryn, and thanks to the Iron Bank, thousand-and-twenty men from the Windblown will be joining them.”
Cersei inwardly grinned. She and Littlefinger had used the Tyrell coin for calling fifteen-thousand Windblown, not twenty. Him purposely misspeaking the number was confirmation of something they were privately hoping to secure. The less men know of it in this chamber, the better. “Great,” she said, unable to suppress the smile longer. “I would love to see the look on the Dragon Queen’s face when she reaches the walls of King’s Landing.”
“And what comes after?” a sudden voice came. It was Jaime.
“After?”
A malicious grin was playing on his lips. “After,” he said calmly. “After the tens of thousands of maggots are killed. If we keep the throne, assuming her dragon does not char it to crumbs. What happens after?”
“Have you lost your wits?” Cersei said, struggling to keep her tone. “After, we rule.”
“Rule,” Jaime said slowly, letting the word hang in the cold air of the Small Council, as if the silence itself posed a question of its own: and how will that look like?
*
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