Chapter 16: Traitors

Cersei's POV

I sat numbly, resting my elbow carefully on the throne. These silly swords on Aegon's chair, swords – they are such a menace. If I had it my way, there would be a throne of gold and crimson, not this contraption that still stabs and pricks people.

I rested my head on the soft skin of my open palm as I watched yet another beggar leave the room. I mean, really, how is it my problem that they are starving? Do they see me eating any more than they are? I had to eat roasted chicken like a savage.

I let out a huff of air, and one of my golden curls dangled in my face as I sucked in a steady breath. With Jaime in Essos, I have to admit that it's more than a bit boring. The council is full of fools; my uncle Kevan insisted that I step down and let him rule as Hand without me. I married a fool and killed for his throne; I wasn't simply going to give it up because he asked nicely.

Then there's the silence in the North. We have yet to hear any news on the Battle of the Bastards, as Qyburn said the commoners dubbed it. They know who is fighting the battle and that it's a rebellion against the crown. Just like all other rebellions, theirs too will fall to the might of the Lannisters. Father might be dead, but I'm still here. I learned from him while my brothers focused more on their cocks and swords. Just thinking about Jaime and the impact forced me into a blind rage.

"Your Grace, you have taken all my livestock, even the ones I wasn't selling. I haven't been paid for my losses either. How am I to feed my family if you have taken my food?" His venomous tone filled my ears as tears welled up in his eyes.

Gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes; hunger had already begun to eat away at his boy and his senses. "Your livestock are going to be used to replenish the king and the royal family that rules over King's Landing. You should be lucky that they only took your food. Now, out of my sight." With a dismissive wave of my hand, he was gone, but I could see the hate that flashed in his eyes as he left the throne room.

I felt my chest collapsing as I let out an annoyed breath. I wouldn't have to listen to these fools if the Tyrells had done their part. Mace, that bumbling fool, left for the Reach nearly a fortnight ago, and there has yet to be a word from him. Then there's this mess with the North. Instead of having the Stark woman and her bastard brother in front of me, I have whining filth and mongrels complaining of hunger. I should just take their heads.

"Your Grace?" A soft and cunning voice ripped me from my thoughts, and I looked over to see Qyburn, a slight grin on his face, giving me a guarded look. "I have word from my spies, and there is a letter from the North." I smiled slightly as I began to rise from my chair, careful not to cut or nick myself, as it had with Aerys and Joffrey. They would say that I'm a false monarch, just like the others who came before me.

The hem of my skirt no longer pooled on the floor as I rose to my feet. My slipper-clad feet glided easily across the marble floors, their soft footfalls barely audible as I walked down the hall with all the grace that a queen should have.

My golden curls cascaded down onto my chest, pooling at my breast. The low neckline of my blue Myrish silk dress showcased my cleavage and tanned skin. Up until this moment, I had felt a great sense of boredom, but now my heart thudded in my chest with anticipation, coiled like a snake ready to strike. I smiled gently as my feet carried me to the small council room. I didn't even need to look at the floor or the walls to know which wing to walk down.

I pushed the large door to see Lord Redwyne sitting in his seat. The Master of Ships stared back at me with a grim expression, his eyes fixed on the table. The captain of the city watch grumbled, his gaze blank as if he wished he were anywhere but here. Maester Pycelle seemed to be snoring lightly in his chair, while Uncle Kevan sat to my right. He didn't look at me; he complained that he was here to serve the king, not me, but he was a fool if he thought the king was the one ruling the realm.

As I sat down and looked around the table, I noticed the absence of the fool Mace Tyrell. He hadn't sent a stand-in either. He should have at least sent a raven to inform us that he was on his way back with a shipload of provisions.

Qyburn cleared his throat and spoke in a clear but somewhat anxious voice, "First, the food situation. I have received word from my little birds all along the Reach and Highgarden, Your Grace. They won't be sending support. It seems that the Tyrells have closed their borders. We caught the queen and her brother leaving King's Landing in the dead of night. They were hoping we wouldn't notice until they were out of the city and on their way down the King's Road."

I was tempted to remind him that I was the queen, but my focus shifted to the rest of his words. "What?" I turned to Lord Redwyne, knowing he was a lord under the Tarlys, but Lord Tarly served that old bat and bumbling fool.

Initially, my thoughts drifted toward torturing and killing him, but I held back. If I killed him and he was truly innocent, it would be just another family against me.

"Very well, we will have to find out what this is all about from the little queen and her brother. Now, what is the news from the North?" I asked.

Qyburn walked off briefly and returned with a man, a messenger bearing the flayed sigil and wearing boiled leather and light chain mail. He was from House Bolton, no doubt, here to inform me of their victory and when I could expect the Stark woman and her bastard brother to answer for their audacity. But as the man entered, the room filled with the stench of death and burnt flesh, emanating from his wounds. He stumbled into a seat, and I could get a better look at him. His face and the entire right side of his body were covered in burns and bandages. Fear filled his sullen gray eyes as he spoke in a broken voice.

"I'm a craven, that much is true, but believe my words. The North is lost. The Boltons outnumber the Starks ten to one. Ramsay made the mistake of angering the bastard by killing his brother Rickon, and he... he…"

His voice trembled with terror and fear, and all I could think was that he must be mad. His wounds might fester, and he could be delirious. The scent of his burning flesh filled the room, making it smell like cooked meat. Qyburn handed me a letter, and I began to read it aloud.

"The North was an independent kingdom for 8,000 years. We now declare ourselves one once more. The North knows no king but the King in the North, Jon Snow. We will not bow to a southern boy-king nor anyone in the South again."

The words trailed off, and my anger surged. I threw the paper down on the table and shouted in rage, "You better tell me what happened in this battle now!"

Anger gripped me, and my whole body began to shake silently. I managed to compose myself, but my fists were tightly clenched, drawing blood as my fingernails broke the skin. The messenger shook with terror, not of me, but at the prospect of having to relive the battle. He spoke in a weak tone.

Each word he uttered made him shake like a leaf in the wind. "Like I said, we outnumbered them ten to one, and Ramsay likes to play sick, twisted games. He cut Rickon Stark loose from his bonds and told him that if he could make it to his brother he would be free. But as the boy started to run he shot arrows at him a few at first just to mess with the boy but then he shot 3 arrows into the boy piercing his heart."

A cold smile played upon my lips. If the Starks thought they could rise, I would crush them, just as we did with the Targaryens. The boy's trembling lips conveyed even more fear as he continued his account. "But then Jon Snow, the bastard, roared with rage. In his fury, he yelled the word 'Dracarys.' We all thought him mad and laughed. But then, three roars filled our ears, and the dragons emerged from the clouds. He must have been hiding them there."

Those screeches ripped through the air as the dragons fell upon us; one of the dragons had the colors of House Stark, white, silver and gray, the other ones were two shade of blue and a blood-red dragon. They decimated our ranks killing about 2,000 men. I was in the cavalry when the blue dragon let out her flames.

My horse moved at the last moment and only half my body got burned I dropped into the snow and the flames eventually died. After that, I grabbed a fresh mount and ran for my life. I could hear more horns I didn't know from who but the Snow bastard has more forces now than he did when he left castle black."

His words sent shivers down my spine. Dragons on our shores? It couldn't be true. They were gone, extinguished long ago. A northern bastard couldn't possibly possess dragons. I couldn't help but think back to my father, Tywin, and his insistence that there were no dragons left in the world.

Tyrion must have lied to us all. My mind raced with possibilities, a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts. "Qyburn, do we still have that fat northern one, the Manderly? What was his last name...?"

"Why, yes, Lord Manderly's heir is still in our custody, your grace," Qyburn replied, his voice laced with curiosity.

My thoughts converged on something Sansa had mentioned to me two years ago. "The Stark bastard is honorable. He would never willingly sacrifice the lives of his men. We have a Manderly imprisoned in the tower. Write to Winterfell and inform them that they are to relinquish their armies and their dragons. Tell them the heir of White Harbor will be killed, making it appear as though Jon Snow executed him personally. The Northmen are known for their unwavering sense of honor and the importance they place on family. Remember how the Karstarks reacted when the boy king executed their lord?"

My mind raced with intrigue. The Manderlys held naval power, and if they lost their only male heir, outrage would ensue. "Write to him immediately. Instruct him to surrender his dragons, and provisions, and bend the knee to me. Once we have them in our grasp, I want you to find a way to control or eliminate those dragons. Additionally, let them know that we are sending Lord Redwyne to treat with them."

I took several deep breaths as my thoughts began to align. My gaze shifted to Lord Redwyne, fear etched on his face. "Don't worry; the Northerners are too honorable to kill someone under a flag of truce. They are not the Freys or the Boltons. Furthermore, I do not want this information to reach the Dragon Queen. If she were to learn of the existence of these three dragons, she might attempt to seize them for herself, and we would face six dragons. Move swiftly, Qyburn, and once you send the raven, summon me. I want to speak with the queen. Lord Redwyne, gather some of your men and go negotiate with Jon Snow."

As the commands left my lips, I felt a swirling sense of panic grip me. It was a sensation I hadn't felt since Stannis almost seized the city. The thought of facing three more dragons was enough to make even the Iron Throne seem precarious.

Lord Redwyne nodded in reluctant agreement. It was clear he harbored doubts about the situation, but I knew that Jon Snow would not dare to harm him on his land, under a banner of peace. Either way, it was a calculated risk, and if Redwyne returned unscathed, we would have an upper hand.

With the meeting concluded and an eerie tension settling over the castle, I retreated to my room. Anxiety gnawed at me as I paced back and forth, my fingers running frantically through my hair. What do I do? What do I do? I found myself contemplating what my father, Tywin, would have done in this situation. His wisdom was sorely missed.

The Tyrells had departed for Highgarden, but the outcome of the battle in the North remained unknown. Two possibilities consumed my thoughts: either they had prior knowledge of the dragons and planned to switch allegiance to Jon Snow, or they were plotting for the Iron Throne themselves. I couldn't ignore the suspicion that had lingered ever since I found that ancient Highgarden coin in the jailor's cell.

As I continued to pace, I noticed an unsettling silence settling over the city. The clamor of the hungry masses at the castle gates, a constant reminder of our tenuous grip on power, had abruptly ceased. This unusual calm sent shivers down my spine. Had rumors about the Northern dragons reached the city? Or had someone else discovered their existence?

My frustration boiled over, and I couldn't contain it any longer. I snarled and hurled a vase of red Dornish wine across the room. The crash of shattering glass was a fleeting release of my anxiety, but it did little to quell the overwhelming fear that gripped me.

The door creaked open, and Qyburn cautiously entered the room, as if approaching a wounded animal in need of comfort. I stood there, disheveled and overwhelmed, feeling like a fragile thing in need of mending.

"The raven has been sent, and Lord Redwyne is preparing a host of 20 men to accompany him. They plan to sail to White Harbor and then proceed to Winterfell on land. Should we head down to the black cells?"

I watched him casually ignore the broken vase on the ground, and I could only smile before slowly nodding my head. With a few deep breaths, I calmed my temper and left the room. A devious smirk played on my lips. I wanted to witness their screams, to see their blood flow before finally granting them the mercy of death.

With each step, my heart pounded in my chest, a mix of worry and joy. In just a few moments, I would confront them, and they would no longer be able to hide behind sweet smiles and loving glances. That witch's prophecy would never come true once this person is defeated.

The scent of mold filled my nose as I listened to the soft dripping of water droplets, the stench of human waste nearly overpowering. The damp air and rancid odor clogged my nose as darkness enveloped me. Wails of pain and fear filled the air, accompanied by strangled cries and whimpers echoing throughout the cells.

Qyburn held a torch, its gilded golden-red light casting dancing shadows on the wall, revealing a man sitting on a stool. His deep golden armor marked him as one of the city watchmen. With a sharp nod in my direction, he returned to studying two cells at the end of the hall. As I approached the door, my heart pounded with joy, and a sense of levity washed over me, dispelling the fear that had once plagued me. Slowly, the guard stood, inserting a heavy iron key into the lock, the sound of tumblers filling the air.

The scent of filth mingled with the delicate fragrance of rose water reached my nose as I noticed a girl with messy brown curls spilling over her face. Pain and hatred burned in her eyes as she turned to look at me, venom pooling in her gaze. Her pale skin was smeared with dirt and grime, and she had nothing but a chamber pot and blackened hay for a bed. Qyburn stood to my right, allowing the light to illuminate Margaery.

Images of her lying before me filled my head blood pooling from her eyes as I ripped them from her body just as Ser Gregor did to that dornish viper. "Margaery dear why don't you tell me why you had your brother was trying to steal away into the night."

A sly smile tugged at my lips as I knelt before her, her knees tightly drawn to her body. Her trembling, blue lips curled into a sneer as she coughed up phlegm and spat, the vile substance splattering against my forehead, forcing me to close my eyes to shield them from her filth. Her expression tightened with hatred as she continued to spit in my face, stoking my rage. I used the sleeves of my dress to wipe away the spittle.

My body stiffened and grew cold as I swiftly moved my hand through the air. The back of my ring-clad hand struck her mouth forcefully, and I could feel the bone of her hand connecting with my own as she emitted a soft whimper while blood seeped from her wounded mouth.

"Why did your father close the borders? Why did he recall all his men? Why did he make you and your brother wait for a fortnight before leaving the city? Was it related to the dragons? How did he come to know about Jon Snow's dragons?" I demanded, my voice filled with fury and frustration.

I could see the shock and dismay etched on her face and burning in her eyes. She didn't seem to know about the bastard and his dragons. Why, then? I could sense her teeth giving way slightly as I delivered another stinging slap to her mouth. A twisted sense of satisfaction washed over me as I struck her once more.

"Why has your father closed his borders and left you here?" I growled, clenching my teeth in fury. I yearned to strike her again, but my hand throbbed with pain, a clear sign that I had injured it during the beating. She only spat out the blood that had pooled in her mouth, offering me a twisted, bloody smile.

"Indulge yourself with your crippled brother or even your son. You're as much a Targaryen as the so-called rightful queen," she sneered, her lips curling at the mention of the "rightful queen," presumably the dragon queen. "Give her to Ser Gregor. I wish to speak with the brother, and after that, we shall execute him as well."

I observed her eyes widen with hatred and something resembling panic for a brief moment, but it made no difference to me. I exited the room and proceeded to the next cell, while Qyburn ascended the stairs to summon Ser Gregor.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I observed the Knight of Flowers cowering on the floor, stripped of his armor, his tangled curls matted with mud. He raised his head slightly, his eyes widening with doubt before he shook it and returned his gaze to the ground.

"Answer my question, and I may show you some leniency. Did your father plan to support the Targaryen queen? Is she en route?" My voice was ragged, yet I could see the hatred etched across his face.

"You were never a queen, just a woman who couldn't stop bedding her brother and cousin. I have no idea what you're talking about. My father summoned us to come home for Garlan's name day as a surprise. We were merely attempting to get a head start," he retorted, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, further fueling the rage burning within me.

"Tell me, and I will be merciful," I responded, my tone softening in an attempt to sway him. However, he only scoffed and let out a bitter laugh, fixing me with a cold brown-eyed stare, laden with hate and venom potent enough to kill.

"Yes, and I'm the king. Your family, the Lannisters, knows nothing of mercy. "If you did, Ned Stark would have his head, Robb Stark wouldn't be dead. Even now, your people are starving, and you are stealing their livestock. You reap what you sow, bitch," he spat out, his voice dripping with hatred and delivered in a cold tone.

The urge to end his life right then and there surged within me, but I resisted. His family would have to bear the burden of witnessing their beloved children's public executions.

"Tomorrow, you will face your execution. Until then, enjoy the symphony of your sister's screams," I declared before leaving the room, where a large man in black armor awaited to carry out the grim task. I ascended the stairs, my mind racing with the implications of the Knight's words.

If I were to believe what he had said, it meant they were working with the Targaryen girl, though there was no concrete proof. Fabricating evidence wouldn't be a challenge for me. The door to the cell housing the younger Tyrell girl closed, and her terrified screams pierced the air. No doubt, she had seen the face of her tormentor.

As I listened to the sounds echoing from below, a sly grin began to form on my face. I decided to take a leisurely walk in the gardens; it was a beautiful night.

The Next Morning

A sense of excitement filled me, reminiscent of my childhood, as I gazed out the window, sipping my morning wine. The sun was rising, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, while lazy white clouds drifted by. It was a perfect day for executing a fool.

"Mother!" I turned to see Tommen, a boy of just fifteen name-days, inheritor of his father's height and soon to be taller than me. His golden curls were clipped short and precise, and he wore a crown of antlers on his forehead as he stared at me.

"Yes, Tommen?" I replied.

I could see the fury and loathing burning in Tommen's emerald eyes, but I couldn't fathom what had incensed him so. "You are executing Ser Loras, but for what crimes, and where is Margaery?" His commanding tone reverberated against the walls, and in that moment, he seemed more like a king than a young boy.

"They are being executed for treason. Loras will face a public execution, but we are keeping Margaery's execution discreet, as it might incite a riot. Her family is plotting to overthrow m... your rule. If they aren't stopped, your life could be in danger. Even now, the Targaryen girl is marching to reclaim this city," I explained, weaving my words with honeyed deceit. Each false statement seemed to sway him further. My ultimate goal was to keep him safe and secure my throne, for the Iron Throne belonged to the Lannisters, and there was no one more Lannister than I.

Walking over to him, I smoothed out his hair and smiled sweetly. "Are you ready?" I inquired, my tone cool. He nodded slightly, his body tensing with doubt that briefly flickered across his face. However, like the dutiful son he was, he walked alongside me in silence. Unlike Joffrey, Tommen was easy to control. Had he been the firstborn, perhaps we wouldn't have been plagued by so many wars.

The warmth of the sun and the humid air offered a sense of calm as we stepped into the gallows. There, I noticed Ser Ilyn Payne, holding a mighty two-handed broadsword, his eyes devoid of life. The only time he ever seemed alive was when he was taking a life.

Loras Tyrell walked in, dirt and grime staining his face, his eyes filled with pain. Upon spotting me, he erupted with rage, attempting to grab the sword of the guards, but with his hands bound, he posed little threat. Ser Gregor seized his neck tightly, choking the life out of him. Loras's face turned bright red before he was dropped to the ground. The King's Guard hurled him against a steel block. Tommen stood before the crowd, pain evident in his eyes, as he spoke with a booming voice. I surveyed the emaciated, hollow-eyed masses staring back at us, their anger palpable.

It was clear that they blamed me for their suffering, and in a way, they were right. The Ironborn had stolen every ship sent to us, and with Highgarden in rebellion, our situation was dire.

"I understand that this is shocking news to you, as it is to me," I began, my voice carrying through the courtyard. "Highgarden has refused to send us food for our starving city. They've closed their borders and left with orders to bring us two years of provisions. The Tyrells are not only committing treason by defying these orders, but they are also starving us all. Justice must be served. Ser Ilyn, take his head."

I could see how green Tommen had turned, his skin growing pale and clammy. Disgust welled up within me at his weakness, but it also made him more pliable, and easier to control. Tommen exchanged a sad look with Loras before coming to my side.

Ser Ilyn approached the block, and Loras remained stoic and cold, even as the enormous longsword loomed over his neck. The sword fell with a heavy thud, and Loras's head rolled across the courtyard. I concealed my amusement behind a somber facade as I approached Qyburn, speaking in a hushed whisper for his ears alone.

"Butcher him and the little queen, then distribute their remains to meat shops across the city. Claim it as from our stores," I instructed Qyburn, offering a gentle smile before returning to the throne room with Tommen following closely. He would make an excellent pawn. Now, I could only hope that my other pawn in Essos was not causing any trouble. Men could be so useless, and I couldn't help but think that women wielded true power, with or without what lay between their legs.