Chapter 12

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It was the thing of a few minutes to prepare a suitable escort for my esteemed royal personage to the Sept of Baelor. Ser Balon Swann had been outside the council room, waiting for my coming, and four-score Baratheon men who'd defected to our camp after Renly's death had been expecting me on the Red Keep's main bailey.

They'd grown used to attending me on my way to visit my dear mother's corpse this past week, everyday just before dusk, and despite some grumblings of taking Baratheon guards with me instead of the red cloaks, I knew King's Landing had no love for my golden haired family. The sack at the end of the rebellion was still raw to some of the older smallfolk, and I did my best to distance myself from that image.

We rode out on a snaking column of armored men and stamping horses, four men wide, ten men deep, with myself and Ser Balon at the center. Taking the same route toward the Sept everyday was a risk, I knew, but travelling incognito would defeat the main purpose of the excursion.

When we left the more affluent neighbourhood of manors and townhouses that hugged the shadow of Aegon's High Hill and the Red Keep, the people were there to meet their king. Huddled beneath the awnings of market stalls, old men and wizened crones said prayers and offered condolences; on the mouth of passing alleyways and side streets, young mothers raised swaddled babes above their heads for blessings; on open squares, pressed by the growing crowds, grimy and soot-stained men and boys vouched to fight my enemies. I waved at them all. A small, sad smile on my face.

I had practiced the expression for hours.

In my midnight black outfit, with a cape of Baratheon-gold draped over one shoulder, I knew I looked the picture of a grieving monarch. Young and solemn, I heard more than one comparison to the late Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. I didn't mind. Rhaegar was much loved by the people, even if he was responsible for igniting the Rebellion.

Robert Baratheon was cursing me from beyond the grave, I was sure.

All in all, Cersei's death did wonders for my popularity. Of course, it helped that my knights pressed silver stags into every waiting hand and distributed bread and salted meats wherever I passed by, but that was neither here nor there.

My escort dismounted as we arrived, forming a cordon of plate armor and heavy tower shields at the foot of the Sept's stairs to hold back the crowds. The setting sun behind the great marble structure threw the shadows of the seven crystal towers all across Visenya's Hill, like dark fingers stretching across the city. I had even heard that some believers congregated at the farthest points of the seven shadows, to pray near where the Gods touched the mortal realm.

Ser Balon and I continued on until we reached the main doors, only then giving our horses to one of the Faith's servants. I had plans for the Faith of the Seven; I had no intention of letting the situation get out of hand like Cersei did in the television series, and while I knew Bronn was out hunting for the High Sparrow, I didn't want the whole religious movement to fall apart. The Sparrows still had a part to play in the history of my reign.

We passed the Hall of Lamps at the entrance of the Sept with loud, echoing footsteps, and Ser Balon stayed behind once I crossed the double-doors into the sept-proper. Inside, only the Kingslayer stood vigil beside my mother's resting place, looking like a man lost in the currents of a storming sea. His eyes bleak and distant, shoulders hunched, legs shaking. From the other side of the room, he even smelled of defeat.

Jaime Lannister had lost the two things that defined who he was—his sword hand, and now his sword's sheath. I hid a smile. It was not my fault the man decided it was a good idea to fuck his own sister.

I approached him silently and layed a soothing hand on his armored shoulder. "Ser Jaime," I said softly.

He didn't turn my way. "Your Grace," he croaked.

I looked down at Cersei Lannister's body, clad in red and gold silks and glittering jewelry. There was no sign of the strangulation bruises on her throat, nor the rope burns she no doubt suffered after I left her hanging from the ceiling.

The Silent Sisters sure did good work.

Taking a deep, suffering breath, I let it all out with a heavy sigh. "Sometimes… sometimes I wonder if perhaps this wouldn't have ever happened if we were allowed to be a family," I said, voice dripping with meaning. "You and I and mother, Joff and Myrcella… we could have been together, all of us." He finally looked at me then, eyes wide and fearful. I simply nodded. "I know, yes. To be fair, I've known it for a long time." I gave him my practiced, wistful smile. "I'm glad for it, too. I'm glad you're my father."

Jamie almost choked. He looked into my eyes, as if trying to determine the sincerity behind my acceptance, then brought me in for an embrace, my face flush against his chest piece. From the corner of my eye, I saw he still had his good hand interlaced with my dead mother's cold one.

Lovely.

He broke off the hug and held me at arm's length with the golden hand. "Tommen… I… I don't…" he trailed off.

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter, father. We can't keep reminiscing on past mistakes. Not anymore. I'm king now, and as king I must always look to the future." I bit on my lip, feigning distress. "Every time I look around me, it seems there's less and less people I love and trust. Myrcella, Uncle Tyrion, Joff…" I paused here, for effect. I made sure my breathing was heavy. "And now… now mother. I need you, father. I need you, even if it hurts carrying on without her."

Good little knight that he was, Jaime wasted no time sinking to his knees. "Anything you wish, Your Grace," he whispered, almost fervently. "My sword is yours."

Oh Jaime, you poor man. I knelt with him, clasping him on the shoulder. "It is not your sword I need, father. I have swords aplenty, and they didn't stop what happened to Joff or to mother. No. I need you at Casterly Rock, as grandfather's heir."

"What?" Jaime's head snapped up. "No, no. I need to be here, beside you. I need to protect what's left of her…"

I suppressed a scowl. This guy was beyond obsessive. "Father, please, you must understand. I have spoken with Lord Tywin about this, at length. I need his support, more than anyone's. And," I added, "it's the only way he'll let Tyrion live past his trial. You know how he always hated him."

Jaime growled. "He's trading my life for my brother's."

"Well, not only that, mind. I got several concessions from him. You'll be getting a House Lannister millions of dragons poorer." I smirked then, making sure it looked similar to the cat-like grin Jaime used to wear everyday. "You should've seen his face, father. It looked like he was sucking lemons out of a lion's ass."

Jaime snorted at the image. He took an anguished glance at Cersei's body before nodding, more to himself than to me. "Very well. I will do it, Tommen, for you. When the time comes, I will revoke my white cloak and take my place as my father's heir."

I jumped into his arms. "Thank you, father. I knew you'd see sense." After a long moment of fake paternal affection, I pulled the both of us up and patted him on the cheek. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll have lots of fun in the Westerlands."

Jaime grimaced, smile souring on his face. I pitied him, too. Living on the Rock beneath Tywin Lannister's thumb was a harrowing task to the bravest of men.