Nerd In the North 4-13 (Patreon)

(Last Chapter of the Royal Family in King's Landing for this arc. Now, I'm going to sleep.)The chamber still stank of damp fur and candle smoke, the kind that clings to silk no matter how fine. Jaime shifted his weight against the stone pillar, thumb tracing the curve of his pommel like he was polishing a thought. Not that he had many left worth shining. The chairs were filled, technically.

Pycelle wheezed somewhere to the left of irrelevance, Varys blinked too slowly for a man who noticed everything, and Barristan sat like he was about to recite an oath even the gods had stopped listening to. Joffrey had one leg hooked over the arm of his chair like a boy playing prince in a tapestry—too stiff, too smug, too loud.

Cersei sat in Robert's chair. 

Not his, anymore. 

Hadn't been for years, not really, not with how rarely he attended these meetings. Her back straight, shoulders pulled taut, fingers cradling her goblet like it might whisper a solution if she stared hard enough. Gold against gold against gold. 

Queen by spine alone.

Pycelle’s wheezing shifted to words sometime after Joffrey finished his rant about something… something… Truthfully, Jaime couldn’t recall but it was so inane that it bordered on stupid.

“The king remains… indisposed,” the Grand Maester said, as though the word carried weight. It didn’t. It sagged, like everything else he touched. “His recovery,” he continued, blinking damply at the table, “progresses. Slowly. As tensions rise due to... events... it may be wise to limit… unnecessary appearances in court by certain members of the royal family.”

Jaime smiled. Not kindly.

“A fine notion, Grand Maester,” he drawled, voice syrup-smooth with just enough mockery to tighten a few shoulders. “Tell me—would that include Joffrey?”

Cersei didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. The pulse in her neck said enough.

“Unnecessary?” she repeated, voice clipped to the bone. “What precisely do you mean by that?”

Pycelle swallowed something, perhaps his own tongue. “I speak only of your youngest, Your Grace. Prince Tommen’s... companion raises questions. Dangerous questions.”

“Hmph,” Joffrey snorted, lounging as though he ruled something besides his own tantrums. “Rumors are for whores and cowards. Let them talk.”

“And talk they will,” Varys murmured, honeyed voice curling like smoke. “The Red Keep hasn’t hosted a dragon in over a century. Not even a hatchling. It stirs memories, my lords. And not all fond.”

Cersei’s goblet met the table harder than needed. Her fingers stayed clenched around the stem. “Tommen is my son,” she said. Each word a wall. “The creature is... harmless.”

“A gift,” Jaime added lazily. “Fitting, isn’t it? Fire for the boy who walked out of it.”

Her eyes slid toward him, sharp as broken glass.

“A most curious gift,” Varys said. “And such gifts often come wrapped in prophecy, not ribbon.”

“With curious consequences,” Barristan added, tone hard as old iron. “The king must wake. This realm cannot rule itself.”

“And until then?” Cersei asked, silken and sharp. “You doubt my capacity?”

“Not yours,” Selmy answered. His gaze did not flinch. “But dragons change the game.”

“It’s boring,” Joffrey interrupted, scowling. “This is all boring. You want quiet? Cut out a few tongues. They’ll hush.”

“Ah, the subtlety of a cudgel,” Jaime said. “Always your strong suit, Your Grace.”

“A boy with a dragon... no matter his age or manner, is no cudgel,” Littlefinger said, finally speaking, his smile thin and amused. “One would call such a boy a banner. One that might draw more eyes than we’d prefer.”

Cersei turned toward him slowly, eyes narrowing in a manner that Jaime had realized long since was the closest thing to a lioness licking its chops. “And what would you do, Lord Baelish? Sell him?”

“Only if the price is right,” he murmured. “But I’d sooner keep him where I can see him. Mystery breeds danger.”

Pycelle cleared his throat with the softness of rotting parchment. “Perhaps... a measure of seclusion? For the prince’s safety, of course.”

“Seclusion,” Cersei echoed. “As though he were a leper? He is heir, not contagion.”

“Still,” Varys said, gently, “the court watches. They whisper. Already, the septons debate the meaning. A boy and his dragon—it is the stuff of legends.”

“Then let them have their legends,” Cersei said. “So long as they remember who wrote them.”

Jaime let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Gods, I missed these meetings.”

“You should come more often,” Cersei replied without looking at him. “It suits you. Being ornamental.”

He grinned. “Flattery from you, sister? I must be dying.”

“We all are,” she said, voice like wine gone sour. “Some just take longer.”

“And some burn brighter before the end,” Jaime said.

The silence that followed wasn’t agreement, but it wasn’t denial either. 

“Enough,” Cersei said, rising, each movement deliberate. “We will handle the court. Tommen remains under my protection. Any who dare speak against him will answer for it. Is that understood?”

No one answered. They didn’t need to. The silence said it all.

Jaime exhaled, slow and shallow, as the flames danced in the sconces behind her. The lioness had roared. 

The fire had burned low, but no one moved. Not even Varys, which Jaime found interesting enough to notice. The Spider liked to vanish before the last echo faded, yet here he lingered, steepled fingers tapping the air like he meant to pluck a thread that wasn’t quite there.

"We have another matter to address, Your Grace," Pycelle rasped, which was generous phrasing for what passed through his throat. Jaime imagined dust crumbling out between his teeth would have had a more appealing landing upon his ears. "News from the East Road. Lady Stark has taken Lord Tyrion."

Jaime’s fingers curled once against the armrest. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe for half a beat.

Beside him, Joffrey sat up as if the words had slapped him. Cersei didn’t move at all. The only sign was her knuckles, whitening at the edge of the table.

"Say that again," she said, very softly.

The Grand Maester adjusted his robes with unsteady, doddering hands, the man clearing his throat like he might cough up a better answer. "Lady Stark—she’s taken him captive, Your Grace. They’re bound for the Vale, by all accounts. It was... an ambush."

Varys tilted his head. Not surprise. Approval, maybe. Admiration for the stones it took to pull something like that with lions circling. "A bold move," he murmured. "The Starks grow daring."

Cersei turned her head, slowly, eyes catching the light like a cat’s in torchglow. "Bold?" The word spat out like a bone. "No, it's treachery."

She pointed a single finger at Varys, and Jaime had seen her do that before. It never ended well. "You didn’t see this coming? With all your little birds fluttering about? What use are they, then?"

"Alas," Varys said, dipping his head like it hurt him. "They sing sweetly, Your Grace, but they are not hawks. Lady Stark has learned... discretion."

Jaime didn’t need to see her face to know her jaw was clenched.

"Shadows," she echoed, rising. The scrape of her chair cut through the chamber like a drawn blade. "A Lannister is in chains because we underestimated the Starks’ ability to crawl through mud and make it look like strategy. That will not happen again."

He stood with her, slower, one hand resting on his hip like he was still deciding whether this was the part where swords got drawn.

"And what would you have me do, Cersei?" he asked, tone low, calm, deliberately casual. "Ride north alone? Rattle my sword at the moon? They’d kill Tyrion before I made it past the Neck."

She spun on him, wild beneath the polish. "So we do nothing? Let them drag a child of Tywin Lannister through muck and insult while we sip wine and pretend it’s fine?"

"I didn’t say that." He held her gaze, refusing to blink as he tried to make her see reason, "But if you want to save him, storming into the Vale like a fool isn’t the way."

"If I were king—" Joffrey cut in, face pink and tight with insult. "—I’d have their heads on spikes already. I’d make the bitch watch while—"

"Lucky for all of us," Jaime said, without turning, "you’re not quite king yet."

Joffrey’s mouth hung open just long enough to prove the point.

"Enough," Cersei said, slicing through them both. "Pycelle, send word to my father. He needs to hear this from us. Jaime, ready the men. I don’t care if we ride or not, but we will look prepared. The court should see us armed."

"Should we not," Varys offered gently, "see to the prince as well? Dragons tend to attract... interest. And numbers, Your Grace, are not always on the side of legend."

And there it was. Jaime didn’t have to look to know Cersei had frozen.

But she moved first.

"Leave Tommen out of this," she said.

Not loud. Not sharp.

Cold.

"He is under my protection," she continued, turning toward the Spider like she meant to bury him in his own webs. "And for the last time—any who question either of my sons will answer to me."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Elsewhere in the Red Keep, the fire crackled like it was trying not to be heard. It didn’t warm the stone. It just moved. It just made shadows.

Sansa sat by the writing desk with her hands folded too neatly in her lap, the quill untouched. Not yet. Not yet. She would hold her hands just so, she would wait until they stopped shaking.

It wasn’t cold, but she felt cold. Not in her fingers—in her chest, where it ached without bruising. She’d tried pressing her palm there once, to still it. It hadn’t worked.

The parchment had been trimmed straight at the edges, the Lannister red sealing wax sitting in its dish like a drop of blood that hadn’t dried. The ink in the well hadn’t clotted. They’d made sure of that.

She glanced at the door. Not the handle. Not the lion. Just the floor beneath—the shadow of boots. Unmoving.

Don’t look too long. Don’t stare. They’ll think you’re thinking something.

She smoothed the page. Her hair. Her skirts. Folded her hands again. Breathed. Thought of Septa Mordane’s voice, the proper cadence. How a lady sits. How a lady writes. How a lady pleads.

"Dear Robb," she whispered aloud, the sound too soft to matter. Her voice cracked on the name.

Her hand moved. She dipped the quill. The ink caught too quickly. The words came slowly.

To my dearest brother,

And then—nothing.

Not yet. Not yet. It had to sound true.

Cersei had spoken with false kindness, with cutting clarity. She’d smiled when she said it. Her hand had brushed Sansa’s hair with fingers that smelled like rose oil and other perfumes.

She hadn't looked at her since.

Sansa’s eyes burned, but she would not cry. Ladies did not cry over ink and paper.

She blinked until the words blurred and rubbed her thumb along the corner of the parchment to hone her focus. Stared at the wax. The seal.

Save Father.

But which words saved him? The true ones? The kind ones? The quiet lies that wouldn’t sound like lies if she said them with the right tone?

Her mind offered phrases: grievous misunderstanding, false counsel, mother weeps, we mustn’t war. She didn’t know what they meant anymore.

She thought of her sister’s voice, but couldn’t recall it. Only the shape her mouth made when she scowled. The crunch of snow when they’d raced downhill. Her father’s eyes. Her father’s hands.

She pressed the quill to the parchment again.

You have no choice, she told herself, though her voice didn’t sound like her own.

You have no choice.

But she hated the way the quill scratched when it moved. Like it was carving. Like it would never stop.

To my dearest brother,

It grieves me to bring you troubling news…

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

The corridor outside her chambers reeked of damp iron and stale roses—a fragrance she despised. It had clung to the guards for days, ever since Pycelle's latest tincture had failed to cover the stench of noxious smoke from the hall destroyed by the wildfire that birthed her son his beast. 

Cersei didn't turn when Jaime pushed open the door. She didn’t need to. The scrape of his boots was familiar enough. The arrogance in every footfall. Her silhouette was carved in moonlight, still, composed, one hand on the goblet, the other curled at her side like it meant to strike.

"Thinking again," he said, too casually, the tilt of his voice meant to provoke. "Always dangerous."

Cersei tilted her head, just enough to cast her profile in silver. "And you—still mistaking observation for thought."

The door clicked shut behind him. He lingered by it, all lazy posture and ill-disguised tension, like a cat too proud to admit it’s cornered.

He watched her. She let him. It was the only thing he still did well.

He’s loyal, she thought, and knew she was lying. He’s loyal to the idea of her. To the memory of what he thought they had. Not this. Not now. Not the truth curling around her youngest like a noose made of scaled velvet.

"So what's the plan tonight?" Jaime moved closer, circling without touching. "Poison a few minor lords? Bleed Pycelle into a goblet? Gods, I could even help with that one."

Cersei didn’t blink. "Did you come to lecture, or simply to hear yourself talk?"

He stopped by the fire, letting it catch the gold at his shoulder. "Just wondering how many pieces of the realm you intend to break before you break your fast, my dear sister."

"As many as it takes," she said. 

"Right, right, right. Because that’s worked so well so far."

She turned then, slow and sharp, her eyes catching the flame. "You think I enjoy this?"

He tilted his head. "I think you enjoy it more than you would ever admit to anyone, including yourself."

Her grip on the goblet tightened. She did not drink. She didn’t need to. She could taste the bitterness already.

"I'm keeping them alive," she said. "All of them. Joffrey, Tommen, even you."

Jaime laughed quietly, the sound of it making her knuckles whiten to snow around the stem of her drink. "Funny. Feels more like you're feeding us to the wolves and calling it strategy."

She stepped forward. "Tommen is safe. The dragon is a symbol."

"He's a boy," Jaime cut in, the drawl thinning. "And you’re turning him into a crown."

"He is a crown," Cersei hissed. "And he will shine brighter than any of us. His dragon will grow and he will rule the North and Joffrey will rule the South and the Lannister name will rule Westeros for thrice the length of the Targaryens."

Jaime’s eyes widened in shock as Cersei’s plan left her lips for the first time, only to narrow a scant moment later. "You’ll burn down every shadow in his path."

"Because I have to."

"No," Jaime said, quiet now. "Because you want to."

Cersei flinched as her brother’s soft words hit her like a blow. Not because it was true. 

Because he believed it was.

She moved past him, brushed his shoulder. Heat radiated from him, familiar and maddening as she fought the urge to look him in the face and kiss him until he took back what he said, until he begged for her affection, her attention.Her love.

Instead, Cersei pushed back. "You’re not a father," she said. "You never were. You didn’t want to be."

He flinched. She saw it. She relished it.

"Don’t pretend concern now," she whispered, leaning in. "Don’t feign love for what you never claimed."

"I'm not pretending," he said, and his voice was rougher than she'd expected. "Not anymore."

Cersei laughed, the sound low and far more bitter than she would like. "You have such love for the son of the man you put the horns to, do you? Conscience suits you poorly."

Green eyes the same as her own glared back at her. "And power suits you too well."

She turned, fury coiled in grace. "Go, then. Crawl back to your knights. Hide behind vows you never meant to keep. But leave Tommen to me."

"He needs more than you," Jaime said, and this time it wasn’t a blow. It was a wound.

She didn’t respond. Not in words.

He left. The door didn’t slam. 

Cersei stood alone in the dim light, her knuckles white around the goblet. “...brothers.”