Taking Orm and five of the "holy men" with me, I set out for Cersei chambers. Well, this confrontation had been inevitable. I could no longer endure her excesses.
Leaving my escort in the corridor, I entered the Queen Mother's apartments.
"Joffrey."
She did not greet me—she merely spoke my name, as though stating a fact. The woman sat upon a low sofa, leisurely sipping golden Arbor wine. Of late, she had grown particularly fond of drink. The windows stood open, and a gentle sea breeze stirred the curtains of the finest Volantene silk.
As always, the queen looked magnificent and regal. Her burgundy gown, cut low and off the shoulders, flattered her full breasts and accentuated the curve of her hips. Her loose, golden hair shimmered as it fell over her shoulders. Upon her slender, carefully tended fingers sparkled mysteriously an elegant—and undoubtedly extravagantly costly—diamond ring.
Cersei had borne three children, yet she remained one of the most desired women in Westeros.
"And what was that supposed to be?" I stopped in the middle of the chamber and drew a deep breath, bracing myself for yet another difficult conversation — one that was meant to finally set priorities and boundaries.
What I was about to do felt like a surgical intervention upon a festering wound. The stench and signs of illness are present, yet so long as the wound remains unopened, it might seem the patient could still go on living. And only the physician understands that something must be done. But once the abscess is lanced, what pours forth can be overwhelming. Today, I was resolved to see it through to the end.
"What are you talking about?" she chose to play with words.
"The High Septon."
"That 'pious fool' is not worth your attention. He is pitiful! I have already found a replacement."
"And who might that be?" Curiosity stirred within me. Was I about to hear what I suspected?
"I have someone in mind—unknown to all, timid, obedient. He will serve us perfectly and do whatever we command. He doesn't even have a name, so insignificant is he," Cersei sneered with contempt and took a sip. "The common folk have given him a nickname — 'His Sparrowness.'"
"Wait. Let me be certain I understand you. So the Weathercock, who would gladly kiss our hands—and our backsides—no longer satisfied you, and you decided to replace him?"
"Precisely."
"And you did not think to ask my opinion."
"You were always an attentive boy," she replied, savoring the scene and smiling in a show of strength and independence.
"I see…" I smiled as well, making certain to plant a seed of uncertainty in her mind. "And what of the Tower of the Hand? Why did you order it burned?"
"Trust me, Joff. It is for the best. That place is a symbol of our shame and our weakness. The people need not be reminded of it."
"No. I will not trust you." I began pacing the chamber. "In any case, Mother, I have ordered Ser Marbrand to delay. Should I learn that he has acted treacherously, he will be executed. I also intend to release the High Septon. And do you know what I am now nearly certain of? That if given free rein, you would ruin us all and bring the realm to collapse! Yes—precisely so. Do not look at me with such astonishment."
For a moment, Cersei indeed was so astonished that she even faltered. But in the very next instant, anger and fury blazed within her with indescribable force.
Her face drained of color; the nostrils of her elegant nose flared sharply. The goblet flew against the wall and shattered with a crash. Red wine—so like blood—flowed down.
"Repeat what you just said," she demanded, rising and taking a step toward me. Her voice rang with naked steel and threat.
"I said that I will endure this no longer." I drew a breath, as though before plunging into deep water. "Pack your things. Tomorrow you depart for Casterly Rock. We have all had quite enough of your madness!"
"You ungrateful whelp!" She snatched up a crystal decanter and hurled it at my head.
I barely avoided the costly object that shattered against the marble tiles right after the goblet. For a moment, I felt uneasy, unsettled. Cersei's rage was staggering in its frenzy and madness.
She thrust her hands forward, fingers splayed like the talons of a bird of prey. A dagger hung at my belt, but to draw it would have been wholly wrong.
She lunged for my face. I felt her nails rake across my cheek, tearing skin, and warm blood began to flow. Seizing her wrists, I forced her arms against her body, stepped behind her, and struggled to hold her fast.
"You bastard! You cur! You swine!" she screamed, kicking wildly. Her cries echoed through the Red Keep—I can only imagine the delight of servants and knights alike. They will have much to discuss before sleep tonight!
I shook her several times, hard enough that her teeth clattered, then pushed her back onto the couch, hoping she might regain a measure of composure. Cersei twisted at once and fixed me with a look of unbridled fury.
(End of Chapter)
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