Queen Cersei gently patted Princess Myrcella's back.
Her gaze grew distant, drawn by the rising cheers outside the carriage into memories long buried.
Once, she had walked hand in hand with young King Robert Baratheon out of the Great Sept of Baelor. The cheers that filled the air now were no different from those of that day.
Thousands had flocked to King's Landing to witness their union. The square was more crowded than ever. Women wore their finest gowns, and half the men had children perched on their shoulders.
Robert, tall and gallant, had leaned in to whisper in her ear that the whole realm loved her. Crowned queen for the first time, Cersei had tried to love him in return. She had steeled herself to embrace the life of a queen with serenity.
That day, Cersei Lannister had married Robert Baratheon in a blaze of glory. That day, she had triumphed over every woman in Westeros.
But happiness had proven fleeting.
On their wedding night, she lay beneath Robert, enduring the stink of wine on his breath as he thrust into her. When it ended, she heard him murmur another woman's name—Lyanna.
Lyanna Stark had once been Robert's betrothed. For the proud lioness Cersei, that single moment shattered everything. His betrayal was unforgivable.
Alive, Lyanna had stolen Prince Rhaegar, whom Cersei had secretly admired. Dead, she had stolen Robert's heart. Cersei had lost—not to a rival, but to a ghost. Lyanna's name became her shame.
But Cersei Lannister, who had long measured herself against men, would never accept defeat at the hands of another woman.
What made it all the more unbearable was that Lyanna was already dead. There was no one left to take revenge on.
That bitterness had never left her.
The only time Robert Baratheon had ever stirred desire in her was that first night. And truth be told, he should have died the moment it was over.
Queen Cersei's hand clenched slightly.
"Mother?"
Princess Myrcella, sensing something wrong, looked up at her with worry in her eyes.
Cersei returned to herself.
"I'm fine, Myrcella. Mind your posture—remember always that you are a princess."
At once, Myrcella straightened her back and lifted her chin with just the right touch of pride.
Cersei nodded, satisfied, a faint smile on her lips.
Outside the Lion Gate of King's Landing, a great crowd had gathered across the wide plain. The banners of many noble houses flapped in the summer wind.
As the royal carriage came to a halt, the clamor of the crowd fell away. All turned and bowed toward her.
Naturally, Queen Cersei would not greet the noble ladies attending the Royal Hunt beside the carriage.
A grand tent had been erected in advance, where she would receive them with proper ceremony.
A long carpet stretched from the carriage to the tent—deep wine-red, the Queen's favored color—less than a hundred feet of distance.
These carpets had been provided by a King's Landing merchant named Petry.
Grenn, who cared only for practical use and not for ownership, had arranged with Petry to rent them instead of purchasing.
Though it was Petry's first time renting goods of this sort, he had handled similar transactions before, and the deal had gone smoothly. As agreed, Petry would travel with a team and cart, laying the carpets ahead of the Queen's every stop.
When the Royal Hunt ended and they returned to King's Landing, Petry would have earned a handsome sum from Grenn—while still retaining ownership of the carpets.
As for what he intended to do with rugs that had borne the Queen's very footsteps, Grenn had no interest in asking.
Though nobles often laid carpets in their halls, spreading them outdoors across wilderness roads was nearly unheard of. Not because of waste—extravagance was a noble's birthright—but because it was not custom. Still, Grenn knew well not to underestimate noble vanity.
As Queen Cersei stepped down from the carriage and onto the rich carpet, a flicker of satisfaction lit her green eyes.
In his role as Master of the Royal Hunt and Chief Steward, Baron Grenn offered his arm and escorted her to the tent.
Still holding young Myrcella's hand, the Queen passed the girl to her handmaid and took her seat. "Baron Grenn, your preparations are most thoughtful," she said.
She was referring to the lavish spread of rare and costly fruits arranged along both sides of the tent's long tables.
From carpets to fruit, none of this had featured in previous Royal Hunts. Cersei knew full well who was behind it all.
With a hand to his chest, Grenn bowed humbly. "Your Grace, for one so noble, these are but modest tokens from your servant."
Naturally, he did not mention that once they departed, his steward Surana would see the leftover fruit discreetly delivered to the Clegane estate.
There, merchants were already waiting to purchase it—at a fair price that would more than justify the effort.
All these arrangements, including the carpets, had been paid for using a special allocation from Master of Coin Petyr Baelish, granted specifically for the Royal Hunt.
And since the Queen herself had appointed Grenn as chief overseer of the event, all such details fell under his domain.
For all the refinement on display today, Grenn had labored the entire day before to make it possible.
Cersei took a delicate sip of wine from the goblet a maid handed her. A faint smirk played at her lips. "It will serve its purpose. At the very least, those idle women who whisper behind their husbands' backs will learn to keep their tongues."
She took a longer sip of the summerwine, then extended her cup. "More."
Then she added, "Every Royal Hunt I attend, I grow more weary of their prattle."
Swirling the wine, she said, "Baron Grenn, it is only because of you that I find this Hunt even slightly interesting."
Grenn bowed again. "Your Grace's favor is my greatest honor."
Cersei's lips curled, her green eyes glinting with cold amusement. "I was surprised when I first heard the news. It couldn't have been easy. Tell me—how did you manage to convince Littlefinger? I know men like you rarely give away anything."
There was a subtle sting in her words. Grenn immediately thought of that irritating fool Jaime and cursed his loose tongue.
Raising both hands in mock surrender, he replied, "It was Lord Petyr himself who arranged my meeting with Lord Jon, the Hand."
He added calmly, "Given that his... presence had already been discovered, I imagine Lord Petyr feared we would not let the matter rest."
Cersei leaned back against the armrest, the corner of her mouth lifting. "And what do you think of Petyr Baelish—Littlefinger?"
Grenn paused to consider. "Hmm... I'd say his moral boundaries are quite... negotiable?"
Cersei gave him a sidelong glance—part amused, part reproachful.
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