the light of the west

"I thought you had more concern for my well-being than that." His lips ghosted over her chin and down her neck, nowhere offended but jesting as per usual. Jaime had none of the drive or the good sense for such a position; he had the good sense to know that, at least. He was built for the field, with a sabre or in a courser.

"Being Hand makes for a suspiciously short life."

What Jaime suggested was ludicrous; while yes, the Targaryens had been known to keep bloodlines pure, it was hardly something the population of the Red Keep would support, let alone the rest of the empire. Too much time had passed since the last Targaryen Emperor, and too much blood had been shed in the name of the Targaryen traditions. It was a new world, and Targaryen traditions counted less than zilch.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, brushing off the suggestion. Jaime was blinded by his own experience, one that yelled that it was fair and normal because it was so for him, and her. Cersei, on her part, knew what they had was unique in its kind, forbidden too because of its rare quality. She would not condemn her children to the same fate.

The talk was making her somber, reminding her of her own unhappiness and how her son would soon enough belong to someone else; whether it was the Stark girl or someone else of her choosing, it made no difference: jealousy coiled in her stomach like a rattlesnake, hissing its outrage at the situation. Unfortunately, there was no way out: an Emperor would need an Empress, and his mother just would not cut it for the rest of his life.

"Other than the usual condescension, no." Amused as he typically was, his reply came out surprisingly stiff. Ned Stark had always found his honor worth shit, but failed to recognize his nonexistent honor was what put Robert on the Seat in the first place. Ungrateful and blind, perhaps. Foolish, definitely.

Aerys Targaryen had been a tyrant.

When Ned Stark dared lower himself to talk to Jaime, it had been mostly criticisms. Firstly that he hadn’t acted to save Rickard and Brandon from the notoriously mad ruler, then that he had acted. Jaime would find the whole thing rather amusing if he wasn’t so damn tired of hearing it all. One self-righteous lord after another shot him eyes like he was a disgrace, but it occurred to him years ago that explanations would do nothing.

He didn’t appreciate the change in subject to the dull northerner, only a distraction from what he’d rather be doing. “No surprise there,” he replied, droll. Cersei’s preoccupation didn’t spread to Jaime, carefree as he was with her in his lap.

He had been so close to finding out about her and Jaime’s secret, and her concern had been so real, and the idea of someone else looking at her with suspicion bothered her immensely.

Jaime was right: Eddard Stark was self-righteous, and would probably blame her if she stepped on a cockroach. But she couldn’t shake the feeling away, and it made her anxious. Something about Eddard Stark unsettled her and shook her nerves; he was Robert’s friend, never hers, and as such Robert’s death would be a great divide.

“I wish we didn’t have to deal with them,” she murmured, tilting her head to the side and brushing a thumb over his chin. “The North." Cersei all but spit that word with hatred. "What a joke. As if they commanded any real power.”

With Robert gone, the next move was bound to be hers: everyone expected everything to stay the same, but the smartest players would know everything would change soon enough. The alliance with the North had been precious, when Robert was Emperor, but Cersei couldn't see how they might benefit from it. Eddard Stark would be no ally of hers, and he would only be a thorn in her side from now on.

“We could get rid of them. Make father Imperial Hand. Joffrey could marry a girl from the Rock. A Westerling maybe." It was nothing but wishful thinking; rejecting the Starks now would be a mistake on their part, and she was not going to jeopardize her ruling. Joffrey's ruling.

The reminder of his betrothal to Sansa Stark leaves him indifferent. It had been his father’s idea in the beginning, of course; a marriage to secure the alliance with the North, between his family and Ned Stark’s, and Joffrey, ever so determined to please Robert, had agreed then. After all, an emperor needed an empress and Sansa Stark was, he supposed, pretty enough to do.

(Pretty, but boring. But if his own parents could endure years together without an ounce of affection, he could endure a lifetime with the Stark girl. Robert had whores to bed, plenty enough to keep him satisfied.)

"We allow the northerners too much power," he continued. That had been his father’s mistake, being too closely affectionate with Ned Stark. "First Eddard Stark as the Imperial Hand and his daughter as future empress."

He grimaced, before turning to look at Cersei now. It was a pity; that he should be stuck with the Stark girl as if that was the only choice he had. Future Emperor of the Seven Worlds and it seemed as though his options were but very limited. There was the younger Stark girl. She was enough trouble at is. For now, of course. 

"They think themselves equal to us. Once I’m Emperor, I will show them what it means to be truly loyal to the crown," he added. "I’ll double their taxes, and command them to supply men to the royal army."

Her son had always shared her contempt for the northeners. Their reasons might be different, but the result was in similar reluctance to the tasks ahead. Cersei didn’t want Joffrey to marry the Stark girl, no more than he himself wanted to.

Following Jon Arryn’s death, Robert had dragged them all to the farthest corner of the westerosi system, all the way to the planet of the Winter; he hadn’t seen fit to tell them why, but not a soul alive had forgotten of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark’s friendship. When the old Arryn had died, Robert’s choice would be in the North.

Granted, Eddard Stark wouldn’t have been Cersei’s first choice: Arryn’s wife was a Tully, sister ot Eddard Stark’s own wife, and Jon Arryn had already posed a threat with his inappropriate questions, long before his demise. The death had been a mercy on her, and Cersei had been thankful to whoever had freed her of that burden. One more day and Jon Arryn might have learnt the whole truth.

Still that meant she was destined to break bread with the Starks and the likes of them, and that didn’t sit well with her either. (There had been that whole accident, back on the planet of the Winter, the one with the child. Jaime had taken care of that, rash and stubborn.) The point her son was making was not without fundament, but it dripped juvenile arrogance and a green idea of power.

“The North is dangerous,” she agreed, “they are wild, most of them savages. Most of them are not that different from those people beyond the Belt.”

Cersei remembered Winterfell; a great station, but stern and rigid in its exterior, lacking the lush and luxurious elegance of the Red Keep. Everything on-world had been just as bland, dreadfully boring to say the least. Sansa Stark had stood out, that much she remembered: when compared to her younger sister, Sansa was almost out of place. Pretty enough to marry the future emperor. Robert had proposed a joinery without consulting her, but she could not have denied it even if he had.

Of all the things she was not prepared for in the Red Keep, the heat hit Margaery first. She had expected the station to be cold, isolated in space as it was, but she found the metallic hallways warm, warm enough to make her wish she was wearing something aught than black. And yet, black she wore. Margaery was lucky that Olenna had thought to have mourning clothes packed. The sleeves were three quarter length, the skirt a-line and to the knee, the neckline demure, and yet suggestive with a sweetheart shape, enough to let anyone who watched her know that she was young, and beautiful, and the shoes, of course, were killer. All she wore around her neck was a peridot stone, large enough to prove her wealth and station, resting just above her bosom, and in her hair a band of black topaz, simple, but with a clear statement, alluding to the crown she wished she wore.

Her heels sunk into the plush red of the carpet as she waited outside the Empress’s chambers. In her note to Cersei Lannister expressing her most sincere condolences, she had requested a private audience, and surprisingly enough, it had been granted. Margaery was unused to the silence. Usually, her retinue accompanied her, the endless static of tittering and giggling filling each room, but here she felt the quiet sink into her. So still was it, she felt the AIs, no, the station itself might hear her thoughts should she dare think them too loudly.

With a quiet hiss, the doors opened. “The Empress Regnant will see you now.”

Stepping into the room, Margaery was struck by the opulence of it, the room was gold and red, the Lannister lion winking from the corners of each fabric, the golden chairs clawed and maned in golden fringe, and in the center, black dress long and dramatic, her blond her impeccable and unmistakable.

When Pycell-E slid over to where she sat, reminding her of her scheduled appointment for the evening, she threw her head back and murmured something about incompetence. Even the note had smelled of roses, written in tall, neat handwriting, the stench of Highgarden all over it; Cersei had never liked roses, they had thorns and she was wary of getting prickled, with skin as delicate as hers.

Olenna Tyrell had been at the funeral, wrinkled and looking far too healthy for Cersei’s liking: she just couldn’t trust any woman whose skin hung lower than her veil. But The Reach was big, and its resources fundamental to the Red Keep. As Empress Regnant, Cersei expected she would be forced in many directions she would not enjoy: it fell on her to change that, and exploit them to her gain. In that spirit, she had accepted the condolences, and the request for a meeting.

The old Tyrell matriarch had entered the cathedral surrounded by a retinue of granddaughters and nieces, one walking right beside her; the most beautiful of the flock, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks. Cersei’s skin had crawled at the sight, for motives unknown to her: the girl walked well, and her curtsey was appropriate. Even the grief on her face when the priest had listed Robert’s great deeds, it had seemed genuine.

In the middle of the room, with the well-practiced darkness of mourning veiling her features, Cersei welcomed the young woman. She’s but a child, but not void of passion. With her arms outstretched toward her, she beckoned her forward, clasping her hands over hers and nodding with gravity.

The seductive tilt as she walked, intentional or not, did not pass Jaime by. It briefly reminded him of the benefits of Robert’s death; things could finally be as they should. The slightest of balms to his frustration, he found himself tugging her down to his lap. “I waited almost two decades to slit his throat,” he complained in blatant contradiction to his hand, which slid down her hip to her thigh. Two days after her husband’s death and she’d already abandoned black in favor of their family colors, red silk keeping him from her skin.

"The least you could do is pretend you didn’t enjoy taking that from me.” He sounded more bitter on principle now, even whilst he leant back an inch and flicked both his brows up. The fight wouldn’t last, even Jaime knew that much. He could only stay grumpy so long about the how of it all when he now had her all to himself.

The complicated design of her dress was a hindrance, but an obstacle he was able to tackle with his lips on her chin and nose near her ear. “You’re free now,” he pointedly observed, developing a smug expression in place of his rebuffed one.

They had called her light of the west, comparing her to a bright star in the dark sky that surrounded them. A shining beauty when she’d hit puberty, a bright light in the dark when she’d become empress. That had died soon enough, with Robert’s debauchery: the people didn’t love their empress any more than they loved their emperor.

Cersei couldn’t have cared less, as she had never loved the people: they were inconvenient and unimportant. Power, she knew, was about more than what people loved: it was about what people dreaded. Threats had served her way better than acts of kindness: then again, she could not remember an act of kindness. I did not kill my stunted brother, did I? That was a kindness.

Jaime pulled at her waist and she sat in his lap, legs to the side like she’d been taught when her first SEP-Ta showed her how to ride a horse, back on the Rock. Tywin had been furious, and ordered for a replacement immediately: ladies didn’t need to ride horses, and Cersei would always have a cruiser at her disposal.

The green of his eyes blended well with the white suit and golden hair, an embroidery of purity for a man who had no purity left in him whatsoever. Except the love for her, that one was pure enough: violent and destructive, but unblemished.

She touched his lips briefly before turning her eyes to the wide rectangular window just behind him; the Keep was orbiting fairly close to the Reach, and its greenery shone against the Black.

“I am,” she murmured, resting her own hand over his on her thigh, thinking back on the humiliation she’d suffered at her husband’s hands, frequent and outrageous and not limited to words and threats. The universe on display before her lay at her feet, and that thrilled her beyond words. Already people were gathering on every planet to come and pay homage to the new emperor; they would kiss his hands and bow, but all the while swearing loyalty to her, the Regnant.

“Learnt my lines?” he repeated, the tone of his voice slightly edging on to mockery and arrogance.

(The truth was, he learnt his lines. Memorized them, know them off by heart? That was different. What if he fumbles, stumbles, forgets? He doesn’t dwell on it because if it does, it will happen) 

Robert had lacked many things in the marital department, but what he had lacked as a ruler was the strength to be such. Not a physical strength -- he had too much of that; he lacked the motivation, and the vehemence that would have brought the kingdoms to heel. He had relied on charisma for too long a time,and for some five years it had been enough to earn him support. After he had won the kingdom at last he had kept relying on that charisma, long after it was dead and gone, along with Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark and all those epic tales of love and vengeance that had etched his name across the galaxy, a hero.

No one saw a hero in Robert Baratheon anymore, not when he stumbled drunk from the Celestial Seat or when he stared openly and avidly at women’s tits. Joffrey was different.

Joffrey was elegant in his movements, and aristocratic in its well-spoken words; no one would make fun of him, and no one would laugh behind his back like they had with her late husband. Her son’s crown rested on a golden trestle, beautiful and lean, and way more dangerous than Robert’s; Cersei could picture it on Joffrey’s head already, a display of what an emperor should be.

Young, brave and valiant, an emperor whose rule would shake the system and remind even the farthest planets of the Lannister’s real power. The Red Keep would be feared, as would his commander, and no one would ever dare rebel again. Fear was a powerful determent.

“You will be married soon enough,” she began, with a smile meant to cover her contempt. A poor attempt really. “One year maybe? It would give us time to prepare the greatest feast the Red Keep has ever seen. We will ask your grandfather for a pride of lions, from the Rock. Real lions, not those terrible holos.”

It struck her suddenly that it would be now or never, like a bolt of lightning. Pressing on, she’d told him he shouldn’t do it, knowing he would do the exact opposite. When he made it clear he would be facing the Arena in the afternoon, Cersei insisted he should use the lowest settings, start it off as a training session. Robert had stormed off, moaning about wives and nagging and blue balls.

That afternoon she’d called her brother, asking how long it would take him to return to the Keep, but the answer had been disappointing: the time to act was now, and she couldn’t wait three days. Robert would be going into the Battle Arena in the afternoon, and she’d needed someone ready, who would not ask too many questions, and eager to please.

Their cousin Lancel had been the obvious choice. She’d instructed him, told him it was for the good of the family; she’d even told him he was her only hope at avenging her honour, now that Jaime was away. And Lancel had always dreamed of being Jaime. It hadn’t been difficult, after that, to spike Robert’s wine with the poison; from what Lancel told her later that evening, the emperor had been so weak and slow that the artificial beast had barely growled at him before tackling him to the ground and slashing his stomach open.

The rest had been a slow agony on a bed, sheets red as the blood seeped through the bandages.

“On the contrary, one more day and Robert might never have gone into the Arena. It was the perfect timing.”

With a tired sigh she walked up to him, each step a sway of her hips; she bent over, her hands on each side of the armchair, nails sinking into the golden velvet.

Jaime had concerns of his own.

The two of them continued walking down the white corridor, windows to their left, thick and airtight, that stared out into the black abyss beyond. When they got up high enough, the Reach would loom in the sky, close and lush in greenery. Matched in stride but not in garb, Cersei looked ornate, sharply contrasting Jaime’s modest white uniform, built for function and simplicity.

"I’ve been thinking about your husband’s accident.” A pointed word choice, not just because the hallway was no safe place to discuss Cersei’s conspiracies. Your husband rather than the Emperor, because just like Aerys, Jaime’s loyalty lied with his family before the Celestial Seat. As her husband, Robert humiliated and hurt Cersei, which was more than enough to trump his vows.

Her brother was careless, he had always been; she wouldn't let him jeopardize her son's life because of it, -- nor her power, which was so inherently dependant on Joffrey's rule.

When Jaime said next seemed to put some fire in her pace, and she sped up, glancing over her shoulder to be sure no one was listening. It was dangerous to speak of such things, one thing she'd learnt was the walls of the Red Keep had ears and eyes everywhere.

"A tragedy," she chimed in, plastic sorrow all over her features in her knitted brows and puckered lips.

Cersei had known this was coming. Jaime would feel robbed of an opportunity: she remembered how intensely he'd begged her to let him kill the oaf on the morning after her wedding night. And he might have, many years before, if she hadn't been so adamant in denying him that luxury. But back then she'd needed him, as her crown was twin to his, and without him she would be nothing. Joffrey was old enough now -- old enough to rule and need a Regnant still. That was her duty.

"Yes," she murmured. "Perhaps if the White Band had been beside their emperor he might have lived. But you knew Robert, he was too brave for his own sake. Poor soul, the Arena got to him." Their ascent to the upper levels proceeded, meeting no one on their way. One more loop and the corridor halted at a tall oval door. Her chambers.

They both entered, and the door had barely slid shut when Cersei turned with a wide smile, sly.

The ceremonies eventually (thankfully) came to an end, allowing the crowd to disperse slowly to their various pods within the station. Cersei stuck out, slow to rise and draped in crimson and gold, a magnet for the eye. His eye. He closed the distance and caught up to her in the hallway, the stark white hallway that had been scrubbed tediously throughout the entire station prior to the coronation. Some of his partners in arms even claimed the Flea Level had hospital sterile navigation docks.

He took their word for it.

Joffrey's coronation was more pompous. While Robert's had come after the Sack of the Red Keep, and had to be paid for mostly with Lannister funds, Joffrey's took place in a time of wealth and prospering. (According to the official reports.) The entire room had been draped in Baratheon colours, after the late Baratheon emperor, and Lannister colours just as well, a reminder of the power behind the new boy-emperor. After all the blessings were given and after all the vows were said aloud, emperor Joffrey Baratheon stood upon the shoulders of a giant kingdom, a giant himself.

The royal cortège left soon after that, with the new emperor at the head of the procession; Cersei had met his eyes and tilted her head in the direction of the young redhead who stood, fidgeting, beside her father. Reluctantly Joffrey had done what he must, offering a wary arm for Sansa Stark to take. They left the Celestial Seat room only to scattered in opposite directions, and Cersei watched her son's retreating back, followed by Sansa Stark's and the white suits of his guards.

Would that she could snatch the Sansa Stark back by her long auburn hair and drag her to the highest tower, the little northener. She thought to be empress one day, and Cersei realized she would, sooner than she had originally planned. Sansa Stark was a problem.

Jaime's voice distracted her, albeit momentarily, and she waited for the other guard to fall behind until he disappeared, and it was just the two of them walking down the the tubular corridor that lead up to the royal chambers.

CERSEI LANNISTER; The Planet of the Rock