"Oh, I pray the Seven will not allow it to rain upon the King's wedding," Jocelyn Swyft said as she laced up her gown.
"No one wants rain," Cersei responded. No, not rain, but sleet and hail and ice and lightning instead. She wanted a storm to match her rage. But she would have to settle for not being upstaged, "Tighter. Cinch it tighter, you simpering little fool."
It was the wedding that enraged her, though Jocelyn was by far a safer target. Tommen's hold upon the Iron Throne was not strong enough to risk offending Highgarden. Not so long as Stannis held Storm's End and Dragonstone, so long as Riverrun continued on in it's defiance, so long as Ironmen continued to prowl the seas like wolves. So Jocelyn would have to endure her rage.
The thought of tying her last remaining son to Margaery Tyrell and her hideous wrinkled old grandmother was one that roiled her stomach. She settled for spiced wine in place of a true meal, hoping the liquor would help her with the long nasty day she had ahead.
Jaime did not improve her mood when he came to tell her of the measures Tommen had ordered for his protection, "Men in the kitchens watching as each dish is prepared," he said. "Ser Bronn's goldcloaks will escort the servants as they bring food to the table, to make sure no tampering is done on the way. Ser Boros will be tasting every course before it comes near Tommen. And if all that should fail, Maester Ballabar will be seated at the back of the hall with many different antidotes to common poisons at the ready. Tommen will be safe, I promise you."
"Safe." The word was bitter on her tongue. Jaime did not understand. Nobody, save perhaps Tommen himself, truly did. And he treated it like a bad jape. Only Melara had been in the tent to hear the old hag's croaking threats, and Melara was long dead. "Baelish will not kill the same way twice. He is too cunning for that."
"Suppose he is. Cunning enough to slip past His Grace. And planning to kill him," Jaime said. "Whatever plan he makes, Tommen will be surrounded by some of the finest knights in the realm. The Kingsguard will protect him."
Cersei glanced at her brother's golden hook, "I remember how well they guarded Joffrey, those splendid knights of yours. I want you to remain with Tommen all night. Is that understood?"
"I will have a guardsman by the door," Jaime said.
She shook her head and seized his arm, "Not a guardsman. You. And inside the chamber itself."
Jaime seemed amused by her panic, "In case an assassin crawls out of the hearth?"
"So you say. Will you tell me that you found all the hidden tunnels in these walls?" They both knew better. Of the ones they had found, Tommen had not ordered the opening of at least a third. And who knew how many more remained yet undiscovered? "I will not have Tommen be alone with Margaery, not for so much as a heartbeat."
"I cannot ignore His Grace's commands."
"And you cannot ignore your Queen's either." Cersei had not wanted Tommen and his wife to share a bed at all, but the Tyrells had insisted. And her father, and Tyrion, and even Tommen himself had joined them in their insistence. In the end, she had been forced to relent, if only to preserve the image that her opinion still mattered.
"Husband and wife should sleep together," the Queen of Thorns had said. "Even if they do no more than sleep. His Grace's bed is big enough for two, surely."
Lady Alerie had echoed her goodmother, "Let the children warm each other at night. It will bring them closer together. Margaery oft shares blankets with her cousins. They sing and play games and whisper secrets to each other when the candles are snuffed out."
"How delightful," Cersei had said, not feeling at all delighted. "Let them continue, by all means. In the Maidenvault."
"I am sure Her Grace knows best," Lady Olenna had said to Lady Alerie. "She is the boy's own mother, after all, of that we are all sure. And surely we can agree about the wedding night? A man should not sleep apart from his wife on the night of their wedding. It is ill luck to do so."
Someday, I will teach you the meaning of ill luck, Cersei had vowed.
But still, her efforts were in vain. Tommen insisted that his wife lay with him, and continue to do so after the wedding. In public, he exalted Margaery's virtues, acting as though he were some sick love-struck puppy. In private, he shrugged his shoulders and said, "It's politics, mother. The best way to secure our alliance with the Tyrells is to put a baby in Margaery."
"You are still young," she had countered. "There is time yet."
"There is always time," he had agreed. "But there is not always opportunity. I need the Tyrells, and the Reach as well, and I cannot afford to let their strength slip through my fingers. There is no avoiding that."
Cersei's fingers were digging in hard enough in Jaime's arm to leave bruises at the memory of that conversation, "I need eyes in that room," she pleaded.
"To see what?" Jaime asked. "It is hardly as if you are unfamiliar with the marriage bed. Tommen is young, but not too much to do his duty. At that age you could not spend half a moon without having me inside you."
"Just... swear to me you will stay by Tommen's side till the sun comes up."
"As you command," Jaime said, as if her fears were groundless.
How could I have ever loved that wretched creature? she wondered after he had gone. He was your twin, your shadow, your other half, another voice whispered. Once, perhaps, she thought. No longer. He has become a stranger to me.
As strange to me as my own son.
It was clear to her now what had happened. Tyrion, the Tyrells, they had all sunken their claws in him. Why else would he defy her, and so often? He had never done that before. His dreams may have been true, that much she would admit, but that did not mean that Tommen did not need a guiding hand. He was a babe still.
She lamented her loss just as she planned to avenge it.
Tommen may have given me back my seat, but he did not give me back my power. Counting coppers and shuffling papers! No matter, I am the Regent still. There is time yet to reclaim my rightful place.
Compared to the magnificence of Joffrey's nuptials, the wedding of King Tommen was a modest affair, though still quite big. No one truly wanted a lavish ceremony, and nobody wanted to pay for one. So the Young King took Margaery to wife in the Red Keep's royal sept, with a few hundred guests compared to the thousands who had witnessed his brother joined to the same woman.
The bride was fair and gay and beautiful, the groom still short and baby-faced. He recited his vows in a high voice, deliberately practiced to make him sound as adult as possible, promising his love and devotion to Mace Tyrell's twice-wedded daughter. Margaery wore the same gown she had wore to wed Joffrey, an airy confection of sheer silk and Myrish lace, studded with pearls. Cersei herself was in black, out of mourning for her murdered firstborn.
His widow may be pleased to laugh and drink and dance and put all memory of Joff aside, but his mother would not forget him so easily.
Baelish would suffer for what he had done.
This is wrong, she could not help but think. It is too soon. A year, two years would have been enough of a wait. Highgarden should have been content with a betrothal. And so should Tommen. Cersei turned her head and looked to where Mace Tyrell stood. You forced me into this travesty of a wedding, my lord, and I shall not soon forget it.
When it was time for the changing of the cloaks, the bride sank gracefully to her knees and Tommen covered her with the heavy cloth-of-gold monstrosity that Robert had used on their wedding day, with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon it's back in beads of onyx. Cersei had wanted to use the same fine red silk that Joffrey had used, but Tommen had, once again, refused her.
Thanks to Stannis and that filthy letter, there were already too many rumours concerning Tommen's parentage. Cersei dared not fan the fires by insisting that he drape his bride in Lannister crimson, so she yielded as gracefully as she could. But the sight of that thing still filled her with resentment.
The more we give, the more they demand of us.
When all the vows had been spoken, the King and his new Queen stepped outside the sept to accept congratulations. "Westeros has two Queens now, and the young one is as beautiful as the old one," boomed Lyle Crakehall.
She could have slapped him. Gyles Rosby made to kiss her hand, but only succeeded in coughing on her fingers instead. Mace had kissed her cheeks. Pycelle had told her that she had not lost a son, but gained a daughter. Tyrion had made some poor jape, but the King had laughed, and so everyone else did as well.
...
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