We must make peace with those we hate, Cersei Lannister kept telling herself – but it was hard to, while watching Tycho Nestoris slither in his seat like a reptile, the joy in his eyes too obvious to ignore when he was informed of the Sack of Highgarden. She had repaid him some of his debt and told him to collect the rest from Casterly Rock.
“And I suppose the castellan, Harys Swyft, shall not be a problem?”
Cersei almost laughed. Harys Swyft, Gilbert Farring, Qyburn, Jaime… she was surrounded with sheep, sheep with nothing to live for should the lioness they fear leave them alone. “He shall not.”
As she saw Nestoris ride away with his ridiculously dressed escort, away from the Red Keep, it was impossible to ignore the lack of commoners on the streets. She summoned Qyburn to enjoy the silence. “See?” she told him when he arrived. “The protests have stopped. The people simply needed to be told what they have always known: their gods are a disgrace, and their lives can only amount to the pleasure of their queen.”
“Perhaps, Your Grace,” said Qyburn, conceding defeat now that he had been proven wrong. “Bronn tells me that attacks on the gold cloaks have certainly reduced. It seems for now they have chosen to obey, but I have found that complaining voices will quiet for good only when they are truly heard.”
“That’s what thinkers and artists with harps believe. I know different. Ruling is about strangling the cubs before their teeth sharpen.” She remembered her dear dead brother. “If Tyrion had not found himself into an early grave, he would have ensured I found mine.”
*
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