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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 8: Part 7 - Coming to Grips
It was easier not to think. Riding a horse helped avoid contemplation of life, death, Robert, and Westeros. Once almost comfortable with the new experience of being mounted, the almost soothing steady, miles eating gait of a horse had much the same numbing effect on my mind as a long car ride; a hundred miles passing with little to no memory of any of the specific traffic or scenery encountered.
And the lack of a radio or CD player didn't turn the journey horribly boring. One of the two score of my escort was always ready to sing some folk song at the simplest of hints. The rotation usually wasn't any more varied than a Top Forty station, so within a couple of days I had at least picked up the chorus for the more popular ones: "The Bear! The Bear!" "And I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!" "In a cask of ale for a casket!"
Robert had a pleasant enough of a bass, far deeper and steadier than my former wobbly tenor-alto three note range. Too bad my memory was shit for remembering lyrics or entire passages of whatever. I could remember snatches of several scores of songs, but never the whole thing. Without a word processor, the Internet, and Youtube, Stairway to Heaven Westeros style would have to wait till I had time to myself. Right, King, time to myself. LOL.
Ser Arys proved a most cordial companion for passing the time as well. I asked him many a question about the Reach, Old Oak, and his family. All topics he enjoyed expounding on in detail once he realized I was truly listening and apparently interested. Robert was said to have the talent of making friends out of enemies. If he hadn't bothered to pay much attention to his own Kingsguard, as by Arys' reaction I had to conclude, then how the lard ass pulled that reputation off was beyond me. Must be a knightly expectation thing I couldn't understand.
Long distance horse travel is slow time. So I tried to learn something personal about each of the escort over the next week. While I was an introvert and not generally prone to small talk, the very opposite of Robert, a little royal attention got all but the most diehard curmudgeons in the group to open up. And there weren't many curmudgeons to start, these men were where they were because they actively sought the notice of their King; and being a prick to a man who could shorten you on a whim by a head was not a high percentage play.
After a week's travel, not only did I know a fair amount more about Westeros, but also about the body I inhabited. The alcoholism remained excruciatingly tough to handle. Cold turkey was not the smart way to approach it. First, beer and wine were about the most sanitary things to drink. Second, I was under enough mental stress and anguish that throwing myself into the DTs was idiotic. Did I mention mortal danger? No? Well this is Westeros, so I guess it should be assumed. Moderate amounts of drink spread out over four or five times a day seemed to keep the worst of the cravings and demons at bay.
The overweight body stood up to the long hours in the saddle with surprising vigor. It wasn't the aerobic exercise Fat Rob needed, but it wasn't useless. Learning/relearning how to ride a horse taught me a lot about the muscle memory still lurking within the overweight flesh. I'd always thought Yoga was crap, but when I went Zen and emptied my mind as best I could, Robert instinctively knew mostly what to do physically. Like I said before, it was easier to not think. The scariest question was how well that Jedi mind trick on myself would work when time came to pick up the hammer. Hulk Smash?
At night, I went to bed early. My body might not have been truly exhausted, but mentally I was spent after pretending, probably quite poorly, to be who I was not. And invariably there would be an insinuating comment about whether I required any bed warmers. More than once I found a particularly bold wench already ensconced under the covers. Tempting though it was to Big Robert, I was still too confused for such activity. Likely I'd just have dissolved into a bubbling mess had I tried anything.
The far front of the column waggled a signal.
"Armed outriders approaching, your Grace," Ser Arys informed me.
I stood up in my stirrups, something I wouldn't have thought about trying ten days ago, to get a better look. Nothing wrong with Robert's vision. I enjoyed not having glasses or having to squint, first time in forty years. Four men, one of whom appeared to be carrying an upright lance, but no wind to show a banner. And a bigger cloud of dust a mile or so behind them.
"The van or the rear guard?" I murmured. "Well send someone to find out who it is," I ordered in a slightly louder voice.
Off two knights went at a canter, the Baratheon colors flying above their heads.
Soon enough, "The Queen." The oncoming banner at last revealed the Lannister Lion standing opposite the Baratheon Stag.
I girded my loins for battle: love, war, and Cersei.
"What in Seven Hells have you done, Robert!?" the lioness roared from where she stood on the top step of the emptied Wheelhouse. All the riders of her escort were at least a hundred yards away. Most even more. "The Children" were even farther off, their mother wanting to spare them the sight of a fight between their "parents". Like they hadn't seen THAT a thousand times already.
My tongue felt dry. I sketched a half bow, "You look lovely, Cersei."
Annoyance flashed across already angry emerald eyes.
"You could have told me you planned to wreck the Small Council. This is serious. I care not about the Eunuch and all his secrets. But Pycelle ..."
"Is an empty old windbag full of flatulence. War comes, Cersei. So I ruled, as a King should," I proclaimed proudly and loudly, feeling a complete fraud within my thin shell.
"War!?" she scoffed. "How do you hear about the Ironborn while on the Kingsroad? Tell me that, Robert. How?"
I pointed up between my eyebrows. "You get lines here when you yell." She didn't actually, but how was she to know. "Did I ever tell you that before, Cersei?"
Her fists clenched. Her already heated cheeks flushed pure scarlet. "You .." she shrieked, then found herself speechless from ire and exasperation.
I climbed off my horse. "There is much I haven't told you, Cersei."
"Why is Jaime gone to Casterly Rock?" she finally hissed as I walked towards her.
She knew a lot. I wasn't surprised, but I wasn't happy about it. I stopped right in front of her "For the same reason I made Tyrion Master of Coin. I need my best men where they will be most useful to the Realm. If the Ironborn attack, I need him to coordinate our response with your lord father."
"And if they don't attack!?"
"Then Tywin gets to spend a few months with his son." I shrugged. "Come down. There is much I would tell you."
"You are useless, Robert. There is nothing you could tell me that ... Aahhhhh," she shrieked in surprise.
Being six foot six and having the strength of a bear has its uses. I picked Cersei up by her upper, outer thighs. They felt good in my hands. And pulled her down to my chest, hands slipping up to cup that wonderful rump. She struggled. Fists beat futilely against me. Nails racked across my beard. I hoped she wouldn't kill me in my sleep.
My left hand sorrowfully released its grip in order to press her face into my neck. "I am sorry," I whispered into her ear. She stiffened in shock or surprise. Probably both. I again debated whether I should just snap her neck. No, I again decided. She smelled wonderfully. "I am sorry I am a disappointment as a husband, a father, a drunk, and a King, Cersei," I continued just as quietly, keeping the lecher bit out of it. I figured I had gone as far with admissions as I dared at the moment.
I set her down and stared into that beautiful, ugly face. "You are beautiful ... and strong." And oh so ugly inside. I gently stroked the side of her face with my thick fingers. God, she is ... I tingled all over. "And I bring the worst out in you. I am sorry," I repeated.
She slapped me. "How dare you." She quivered in place.
"You can slap me again," I said softly.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
"How dare you." Her voice quaked at the repeated accusation.
Were those tears developing? I held my enormous arms open for her. An invitation. I had to try, didn't I?
"Go to Seven Hells," she snapped, head suddenly tilting down, and her whole body turning away from me. Away she half stomped and half fled.
I swallowed in relief that the encounter hadn't gone any worse. The bile tasted bitter. I needed a drink.
"So why didn't you kill Grand Maester Pycelle too?" Joffrey asked, the bloodthirsty cunt.
"Who would the Citadel send to advise me if I took his head? Not that I wasn't tempted." Oops, probably shouldn't have admitted that.
The beautiful blond boy shrugged, obviously not caring; let alone bothering to think about the question.
"Don't worry, Joffrey." You little shit. "There are plenty of maesters around King's Landing to tutor you, whether we have a Grand Maester or not."
He frowned, his personal disappointment at that implication evident.
"And what punishment do you think your Uncle Jaime deserves?"
"Uncle Jaime?" He laughed. Ugly. "Why him, father?"
"He never told anyone of all the wildfire buried around the city. What if some of the containers had broken at some point. Thousands could have died," I explained patiently. Ok, I undoubtedly had some tone in my voice. I was never the most patient of parents.
"They are just smallfolk."
I so so so want to smack you. "Idiot," I did burst out. "You think Mad Aerys didn't order the Pyromancers to place some of the evil stuff in the Red Keep? It could have been those lowly 'smallfolks' who came to rescue both our sorry asses. Understand?" I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw a very small, dim lightbulb go off inside the pretty little shit's brain. "We have a Septon or a Septa travelling with us, don't we?"
The light died and Joffrey rolled his eyes. "Yes, father. Septon Bryon and Septa Damas."
"Then tonight I want you to seek out Father Bryon and ask him to recite to you the Seven Pointed Star," I smirked.
The brat groaned. "How much?"
I was tempted to say the whole thing. The Septon probably wouldn't have appreciated that either. "A chapter or two on the Father, and ask the Septon to focus on our duties to the smallfolk."
"I ..." Joffrey started to protest.
"Do it!" I roared, unleashing bad parental Robert.
"Yes, father," 'my son' responded with downcast eyes. He had probably seen a fist of mine clench.
"Now ride back beside Ser Arys, and ask him what his knightly duties towards the smallfolk are."
He 'humphed,' and likely gladly pulled back on the reins of his horse.
I knew I was prejudiced against the spoiled brat. Was I just toying with him, when I knew he had to die? Or was some small guilt ridden part of me actually hoping I could alter, however small, the trajectory of the little bastard's warped personality?
It's easy to say you'd kill infant Hitler. I now suspected it was another thing all together to actually do it.
"You and mother shouldn't fight, father," Myrcella chastised me with all the precocious innocence of an adorable eight year old princess.
I laughed heartily. Then, "I agree, Princess. It sets a bad example for you and your brothers."
She nodded in agreement with sage seriousness.
At least she hadn't stomped on my deficient parental skills right off the bat. We'd been riding side by side for at least fifteen minutes and the girl must have exhausted the highlights of the major events over the past twelve days since she had last spoken to her real, or make that not so real, father.
"At least you aren't stuck in the Wheelhouse doing needle work, eh?" I prodded joshfully. Cersei, when she had "calmed down," had commandered the oversized carriage all for herself and her sulk; kicking out not only the ladies-in-waiting, but family too.
She smiled shyly. "Riding is more fun."
"Hee-yah!" I shouted. "Catch me if you can." I spurred my mount from a walk into a canter.
"Hehehehehe," she giggled.
I looked over my shoulder and saw her urging her much smaller horse to give chase. I smiled at her childish delight, not worrying whether actions like this would raise hell with the overbearing itch of a mother later.
"And then the inn keeper gave me a bowl of milk so the Tym would get close enough for me to pet. He was orange with yellow highlighted strips across his back."
Jesus, cats, that's all the kid talked about. Really, George? You couldn't have thought of giving him any more of a personality than that? "So what did you name this ferocious feline, Tomen?" I asked, feigning interest. For my own sanity, I needed to come up with a plan so I could stand to be around the lad.
"Stop staring at me, for Gods sake," she hissed quietly at me.
"Hhhmmn?" I responded absently.
The royal party had taken over the entire inn. And now that the King had been reunited with his traveling court, etiquette became more formal. The Baratheon family must dine together in the main room with as many of the notables out of the two hundred some odd of them as could be squeezed in.
King and Queen were given rooms beside each other and time to clean up and change into proper garb before dinner. And a very chilly dinner it was. My "wife" would neither look nor talk to me. Worse, Joffrey sat the other side of me. Conversation lagged. I found myself drumming my fingers on the tabletop impatiently, frustrated. And worse, reaching for the conveniently placed wine jug.
Three times I clasped Nirvana, but found just enough willpower to let go. That at least seemed to draw Cersei's notice. I was sticking to a mug of ale. Well, two mugs. I wondered what she would make of a quieter, soberer Robert. Too quiet. The dinner was killing me. "Music!" I roared, standing up so fast my chair knocked over backward.
From the corner of my eye, I spied a snide smirk develop on those lovely, lovely ruby lips. "Music fit for my Queen of Love!" I shouted. The smirk turned angry. I dropped a meaty, clammy hand to rest on her shoulder. "A song worthy of your Queen's beauty, I command it!"
"Here, here!" or some such the room roared back in agreement.
Two lyres plucked forth, but one plucked faster and stronger. A jaunty, poorly dressed singer stepped forward and began singing.
"Twas in green leafy springtime,
When the birds on every tree
Were breakin' all their little hearts
In a merry melody.
An' the young buds hung like tassels,
An' the flowers grew everywhere -
'Twas in green leafy springtime
I met sweet Rose Adair.
O Rose Adair ! O Rose Adair !
You are the radiant sun,
The blossomed trees, an' scented breeze,
An' song-birds all in one."
"Her Grace is indisposed," the lady-in-waiting said softly through the crack in the door; luckily not daring to meet my eyes, for then I surely would have averted mine.
"And I am the King," I declared firmly and started pressing against the door. She could not resist my giant strength. "Best you leave." Then, when I got a full view of the room, in a louder voice, "And the rest of you too."
Three more sweet things and Lancel bowed and rushed out of the bedchamber in embarrassment. That last bit was interesting.
The door closed.
"What games are you about, Robert? Have you not shamed me enough today?" Cersei demanded hotly, but not too loudly. Decorum of sorts.
She was radiant. Long golden hair unbound at the days end. A thin silk embroidered top with enough decolletage to reveal almost bare shoulders and a hint of cleavage that a lucky gold chain dangled between. "You are beautiful, Cersei. Extraordinarily so. I am sorry that those words have come to mean an insult between us."
With obvious effort she bit back on her tongue and gave a small nod of understanding.
"In the morning, I would hear your advice on how to deal with Balon Greyjoy."
That surprised her, I could tell. Still, her eyes automatically narrowed in suspicion. She really was deeply, deeply paranoid. Satisfied there was no evident slight in my proposal, she nodded again.
"You lost a mother, Cersei. And that is a terrible thing, especially for a young girl."
"Robert, Godsdamn ..."
"Here me out, woman!" I barked. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead and in my pits. It was taking all my willpower to stay focused, to stay kingly, and to not shrink from this gorgeous, angry creature. I ... I needed another drink of courage.
"I lost a father and a mother. But I was at least a man by years when it occurred, and a thoughtless oaf to boot. What's more, I had a second father who I could run away to hide behind without even realizing it." I took a big breath. "Now Jon is gone and I am done hiding."
Green, hard eyes stared at me a long time. Calculating? "Why are you telling me this, Robert?" she asked coolly; perhaps with a hint of condescension.
A big sweat bead rolled down my cheek into my beard. "Because if I am to be honest with myself, I should try being honest with those closest to me. Sleep well, Cersei. We shall speak in the morning." And I'll try not to have a hangover
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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 9: Part 8 - Sexual Self Defense
Why did I ever suggest "Ride with me" to Cersei that next morning over breakfast? Breakfast? No, smorgasbord fit for a king, which explained my fat ass and belly if this was what got placed before me on a regular basis.
And sure as hell why did I ever in a million years say to her, "If I am to be honest with myself, I should try being honest with those closest to me"?
Oh, I'm so clever. Just say this, do that, a nudge here, an understanding tone of agreement there; and my good intent is so clearly obvious to even a blind man, that things will go just swimmingly. Dazzle her with your insightful brilliance while still playing the dullard. So easy.
Bullshit.
Seventeen years of marriage to a woman far smarter than myself should have disabused me of that notion. But oh no, I'm a Song of Ice and Fire fanfiction writer. I've studied the major characters. I "know" them. I've read other "knowing" writers. Piece of Cake. Everything is A to B to C, straight linear progression. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom, I'm golden until I have to make my next move in the Game of Thrones.
HA!
Idiot. Should have listened to my fears. Better to keep your damn mouth shut than open it and prove to everyone you're a fool. Thanks Mark Twain, or was that Homer Simpson, I don't remember. I'm too busy sweating my balls off under the onslaught of the unnatural force of nature called Cersei Lannister.
She's still fucking hot as hell though. Wish she was riding my saddle.
At least no one batted an eye at having liquor with breakfast.
Clip.
"Why won't you tell me who this secret messenger was?" she snapped peevishly ... for the fourth or twelfth time.
Clop.
Because he didn't exist. Leave it alone already. "Cersei, what does it matter what pissant errand boy it was?" I growled in exasperation. "What only matters was he came from Stannis. There was finally confirmation of how Varys, the slaving, child maiming, ball-less bastard Blackfyre has been spying on us all for years; and in the notes his agents came across, it was clear the seven faced liar was holding out information on the Greyjoys. He's dead. Hopefully Stannis, the hard headed cockhead, now feels safe to return to King's Landing," I desperately summarized for the umpteenth time.
Clip.
"You spoke of honesty, Robert," she chirped yet again.
Clop.
AAAAGGGHHHHHH, I screamed inside my head. Why can't you focus on how my lame ass explanation takes all the focus off of Jon Arryn and Stannis investigating how "my children" are really all bastards for your incestuous cuckholding of Robert. Make me feel safe!
Clip.
Fury at my own futility rose spitefully inside.
Clop.
"You want honesty, woman! I'll give you honesty! There is only so much pointless badgering I can take before I explode!" I bellowed in an unintentional effort to match this body's reputed base temperament in dealing with her. "I've admitted I've treated you shamefully. Yell and curse and tear me down for that. I deserve it. You are a lioness of House Lannister. Roar at me. Don't disparage me and rile my patience with petty slights heaped upon petty complaints, its ... its unbecoming of a great lady ... a Queen for gods-sakes," I harrumphed.
Clip.
Her mouth twitched.
Clop.
The nose clinched just a little.
Clip.
Something calculating went on behind those emerald, emerald eyes.
Clop.
Did anyone ever once in any story mention how incredibly fucking difficult it is to read facial expressions while riding a goddamned horse, even at a walk? No, of course not. Because they've never had to ride anything more than a swivel chair and a keyboard. Useless motherfuckers. Get out of your parent's basement.
Clip.
"You are playing a game with me somehow," she declared suspiciously.
Clop.
I half moaned, half vented a grumble. YES! Get on board. Please. My hand shot out and grabbed a bit of slack in her reins. Somehow, I've no idea how, I maneuvered my beast next to hers while stopping both of us.
"At least this is a better game than the one we've played ... forever," I blurted out with pent up frustrated emotions of ... something.
"You're begging me," she blurted out in amazement. Other than scorn and hatred, the first true emotions I'd seen her express. The look slid off just as quickly as it came. "Remember your King," she chastised.
I let go her reins and raised my hand.
Instinctively she flinched a little.
Yet another reason I wanted to vomit. I gently laid the hand on her cheek. My skin tingled. Weird sensation to have nausea and lust at the same moment. I exhaled heavily. I was doing that a LOT!
"And you are both Queen and wife. As I am King and husband." My lips had a tough time forming the words, I wanted to lean over and kiss her. She couldn't say no, could she? Just stab me in my sleep or something even nastier. "Do you think your mother always treated your father as Lord Tywin."
That smooth skin paled slightly, or my eyes might have played a trick on my, other than that no true reaction was revealed.
"It is said that they truly loved each other. Too much has passed between us for that to happen, Cersei. But perhaps the hate can end," I whispered hopefully. "You are beautiful."
"You have changed, Robert."
For better or worse, I couldn't see through those emerald, emerald eyes. I could only hope.
She swished her reins and lightly applied spurs. "Come. Another day will see us to Darry. I look forward to abusing as much of Ser Raymun's hospitality as possible," she announced with a wicked smile.
Clip.
I nudged my horse forward. A Cersei apparently set on a course worried me as much as an undecided Cersei.
Clop.
Until we broke for what passed as lunch, Cersei mostly spoke of "our children" and the short comings of both House and Castle Darry.
Clip.
I mostly complemented her on her beauty, horsemanship, and wicked sense of humor.
Clop.
Ser Raymun did set a lovely feast for his King. It wasn't the grandest of castles, hey, I'd already been to the Red Keep, but still cool as shit. The biggest holdfast I had visited so far in my two weeks in Westeros. At what size did a holdfast achieve the status of "castle"? I didn't know, I just paid attention to what those around me said as we passed basic motte and bailey and other fortress configurations.
There was a passing mummer's troop that the knightly lord, was that the correct ranking(?), had basically incarcerated upon hearing of my coming. Why couldn't GRRM have at least broken nobility down into Knight, Baron, Earl, Duke? Wasn't "Ser" instead of "Sir" world establishing unique cuteness enough?
The group was comprised of a pair of singers, one of whom played harp and the other a lyre or a lute depending, a juggler, a tumbler, a joke teller, and they could all act out skits together. Better stuff than your average Renaissance Fair entertainment. And no need to try and translate Elizabethan/Shakespeare style English. Maybe the wine helped too.
As my first "official" feast, it was odd sharing my plate with Raymun's wife, the pleasant enough Lady Felicia; who initially was clearly nervous about sitting beside the notorious lecher Robert Baratheon. My eyes and hands stayed aimed straight ahead.
Cersei shared with Raymun and kept her snark to a minimum. Joffrey and Tommen each got their own plates at the High Table. And where was the kiddie table? No where, that's where. Joffrey was a shit, but at least not an insufferable one. While the Darry heir, Lyman, shared with Myrcella. They were close to an age, making me wonder how intentional the set up was. The boy was on his best behavior as far as I could tell. He must have been cause Cersei didn't feel the need to say boo once to him.
What?
I glanced down. There was a hand on my thigh.
I at least didn't whip my head straight round to look. Play it cool, Paul. Play it cool. She was just sort of almost looking in my direction, a lazy smile upon her lips. Ruby, lush, moist lips.
I sat up a tad stiffer in my chair and smiled widely. The goblet went back down to the table. I cautiously dropped a hand and stroked once with my finger.
The "offending" hand slide down my leg to my knee and then off.
Cersei laughed encouraging at some exploit going on down below the High Table.
I, on the other hand, winced. I might have just broken my cod piece with Big Robert.
Cersei leaned over occasionally to whisper in my ear, just brushing against my arm. Her breath was soft.
Once she came over far enough that her breast, admittedly constrained by fine velvet, tantalizingly rubbed on me. My eyes fluttered in ecstasy at that.
When she spoke "Robert," there was a slight huskiness to her voice.
The hand flitted back every now and then too; encouraging a quick caress back that she always teasingly fled from.
She even rested that hand a rapturous moment on Big Robert.
I squirmed in torturous delight.
The lazy smile grew more encouraging.
I bite my lip in anguish.
More wine was pushed my way.
I accepted more often than I should have.
She appeared to drink handsomely too.
Her face grew flush.
"My wife" was a world class flirt and seductress. No surprise there.
It felt very, very good to be the king.
This was the Game of Thrones I had hoped to play.
I was petrified of her.
I wanted her.
I couldn't wait any longer. I stood, holding aloft my goblet. "Ser Raymun!" I shouted with an undoubtedly goofy grin upon my face. "As fine a feast as I can remember!"
"Thank you, your Grace," the man automatically responded, though his smile seemed genuine.
"A cheer for Ser Raymun and House Darry!" I thunderously commanded.
"Huzzah!"
"Louder!" I bellowed.
"HUZZAH!"
I cocked a cupped hand, but not the hand with a cup, to my ear.
"HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!"
I nodded sagely. "That's better," I announced. I think the fellow blushed in pleasure. I looked down at the man's wife and found her fanning herself to hide the face busting smile on her mug.
I had no idea how many protocols I was breaking. I didn't much care. "While it would be my pleasure to stay longer, I fear that the day has been long on the Stag and his Doe." I switched hands holding the drink and rested one on Cersei's shoulder. She didn't flinch, but even leaned into me slightly. "It is time for me to retire." And bang the Queen into next week.
"No, your Grace. Stay," Ser Raymun countered pleadingly. No doubt hoping I would spill more accolades on him.
Shouts of "Stay" were taken up in the Great Hall.
"No, no. You are as generous with your words as you are with your feast, Ser Raymun." He smiled more. "Time to allow the young bucks to have their fun without the royal gaze restraining their ... enthusiasms." I narrowed my eyes in an exaggerated sense and pretended to look carefully over the hall.
The room erupted in wild shouts. Really? For that hammy act? Who the fuck actually talks like that? And they eat that shit up. It can't be just because I'm king, can it? Well, maybe.
"But my last official duty," Before banging this gorgeous creature whose clothes I want to rip off. "Is to proclaim a toast. To Ser Raymun."
"SER RAYMUN!"
I hoisted the goblet and drained the last of the red wine in it.
"Come, Cersei." I held out my arm.
A page pulled back her chair as she stood and rested a slim, delicate, smooth hand atop my thick, rough one.
Out we walked through the cheers with Ser Arys and Ser Boros - Beauty and the Beast - trailing behind.
Her fingers dipped and teased down between my own. In my old body, I would have yelped from the ticklishness of it. Here I just wanted to yelp for another reason.
"You are so amusing, Robert," Cersei snickered once we were outside. "'As fine a feast as I can remember,' I had a better piece of fowl when I broke my fast this morning at that shitty inn," she whispered. "And that tart, it was as bitter as Lady Felicia's face."
Ah, what a bitch. And she's all mine.
A half dozen retorts came to mind. In my own best interest, I repressed them and simply shrugged with a light laugh of seeming agreement.
Into the Plowman's Keep we went and up the stairs to the top level, Ser Raymun and sour Lady Felicia's personal apartments, vacated for royal occupancy. I led Cersei to her door.
"One last drink?" she offered.
I kept my mouth from dropping and spewing drool everywhere. And instead, squeezed out a hopeful (desperate?) smile and an encouraging nod.
A guard opened the door. In she went, immediately followed by an imperious, "Leave us."
"Wait outside," I murmured in a strangled voice to the white cloaks.
A small bevy of women rushed and bowed past me as I entered the forbidden temple. A lovely, large, luxurious bed chamber, aside from no indoor plumbing, from my upper middle class perspective. Big canopy bed draped with gauzy, patterned sheets from above, I noted. Cersei probably thought it all a dump.
She was already at a side table, pouring wine.
I slid up behind her and wrapped my bear like arms around her waist.
"Robert," she tittered, and pressed her sweet bum against my obvious excitement.
"Shhh," I whispered into her ear, and then took a nibble at the lobe. Oh god. She tried to turn around. "No, no." I said softly, holding her tight, as my mouth and teeth and tongue explored.
"Your wine," she suggested.
I was drunk enough already. And a hand job - the Cersei special - was not what I ultimately planned on happening tonight. "You are drink enough, my sweet beauty," I murmured huskily, moving down to that exquisite neck. I released one hand to reach up and grasp a forearm, pulling the proffered chalice back on to the table. Then a quick swap of arms and I did the same to the other arm and glass. "Its been too long."
"Yes, yes it has, Robert," she readily agreed, although it did not sound totally honest.
I knew she would dislike not being the one in control. Regardless, I pressed on. My inner elbows were now rising up and down on either side of her child bearing hips and tight torso as I continued my assault on her neck. "Tonight will be about your pleasure, my swee ... sweetling." The local love vernacular did not roll off the tongue readily.
"Oh?" There was surprise and a hint of doubt in that brief statement.
"Oh, yes. Don't move," I prompted her, begged her. One arm reluctantly disengaged so the hand could search in my pockets. Ah, there. I pulled out a cravat or a medieval equivalent of a hanky. Silken, yet solid enough some light could get through, but nothing more. And must thankfully, unused.
"What are you doing?" she asked a tad nervously.
"Shhh, shhh," I urged, taking the cloth in two hands and raising it over her face, over those calculating, beautiful emerald eyes.
"Robert?" Definitely nervous now. She started to struggle a bit.
My lips came off her neck. "Pretend its your secret lover." Brother fucker.
"What?"
"There is no Cersei tonight. No Robert. Only ... Jonquin and Florial," I said softly, pulling the silk back to cover the smoldering green that could pierce my weak soul.
"Jonquil and Florian, you fool," she laughed uneasily.
"Aye, a fool." Such a huge, huge fool. And worse. Soon much, much more vile.
I turned her about.
Ruby, succulent lips stared back at me. I tasted them. I moaned.
"Robert?"
"No, a knightly fool."
I kissed her again. And again. My hands roamed over her back and butt.
She went to speak again. My tongue slide inside her mouth.
She stiffened in surprise. Thank god she didn't bite down to permanently mute me. I would need my tongue. The tension faded some, accepting my attack. So I picked her up. Light as a feather. My groin so heavy. The movement separated our mouths. "For your pleasure," I repeated. "For your pleasure
Carefully down on the bed I set her, stretching her out. How much was the support of her dress or the tautness of her body, but her breasts mostly stayed thrust upright. I leaned over her, trying to keep my fat, repellent belly off of her evil perfection. The caresses resumed. My lips touched her again and again.
Minutes passed. Now I teased her as best I could. She both tensed and relaxed. Words at last slipped out of those perfectly curved lips. "Fool," she moaned.
I reached up with a long arm and yanked down, tearing off a strand of the gauzy draping dangling off the canopy. Then another.
"What are you doing," she asked softly between tiny whimpers.
As best I could, I quickly made two loops. And at last I rest my full weight upon her. Grabbing her small hands with my large violating ones, twining our fingers, and pulling her arms outright. I smothered her with kisses.
She kissed back.
"Wh-wh-what?" she stuttered, as I slipped the loops around her wrists, tightened them, and quickly wrapped them around the bed posts.
"Your pleasure, my sweetling." My body slid down her torso and thick hands started inexpertly pawing at her delicate dress; lifting the hem of the skirt up.
"Robert!" Panic. She definitely did not enjoy the loss of this much control.
"A fool, just a fool. Your fool." Her mons was glorious. My fingers lightly stroked the ridges and folds. I breathed a rationalized sigh of relief. She was moist. Not a flood, but definitely moist.
"Sssstop."
I didn't. "Your pleasure, my queen. Your pleasure," I chanted; touching, brushing, licking, nibbling, kissing, caressing.
After a while her body began to shudder. She moaned. Then as God and Alien Space Bats were my witness, Cersei orgasmed.
By that point I had long lost my erection. I unloosened her bonds and left the room, never having taken my clothes off.
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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 10: Part 9 - Keep your Enemies Close and
.. And your Wife Closer
I didn't go get drunk, though I wound up having the equivalent of a hangover. Sleep took a long time in coming. Tears, not so much; they came readily. Was I an adulterer? Was I a rapist? Or only a mere sexual ... harasser? ... offender? ... groper? I somehow hadn't ever gotten around to taking the multi-verse ethics class in philosophy at Syracuse University thirty years ago.
Varys death and potentially the others I had already directly set in motion had not bothered me so much. Clearly those men were evil; capital "E" evil from the get go. Rationalizing that, applying moral equivalence, as part of saving my own ass was unquestionably distasteful. Did it keep me up some at night? Sure. But all-in-all those actions were undoubtedly moves towards the greater good for Westeros, not just myself. I slept knowing that the curve of history, if there was such a thing, was bending towards justice thanks to me.
And for the unintentional deaths that I knew would occur from whatever course I choose to follow, this being Westeros after all and I was Robert fucking Baratheon? Well, best not thought about much. But again, I firmly believed I was doing my best to plan for a minimization of collateral damage. My soul and sanity clutched tight to that idea. And, I would never let go. Never.
… unless my own life was on the line.
Last night? Ugh. Cersei was lower case evil by comparison in my humble opinion. Unfortunately, with her position and psychosis and selfishness, she came with a near unmatched ability to set in motion World Class Evil. Ok, maybe I was exaggerating. Too much show Cersei cause and effect versus the last book having been published, what? Three years ago?
My reprehensible actions had been pleasurable ... very, very pleasurable ... to a point. And my wife was not available for me to beg full forgiveness from; or, at least the dispensation of a begrudging understanding. 'My life was on the line honey, and honestly, to save it I simply had to perform oral sex on this ravishingly gorgeous but thoroughly despicable woman, you get it, don't you?' Seventeen years of marriage and I had never cheated. Never thought of cheating. Not that anyone had shown any interest in me that way other than my wife over those years ... well there was that one time over dinner that Rhonda had hinted at a three-way with me and Rebecca.
Round and round and round I spun. Tossing and turning my lard ass frame on the ridiculous oversized feather bed. I did drink most of one bottle of wine to help me fall into troubled slumber; while promising myself I'd do better restraining my Robert ways the next day.
Cersei did not come down to the Great Hall to join me or 'the children' for breakfast. Lancel's polite tap on the door and whispered words with whatever lady-in-waiting had snuck back into her room after I had left eventually elicited a polite fiction of "Her Grace still slumbers, your Grace." I wondered how confused, angry, receptive she would be. Either unhappy or still processing, apparently. I was happy enough to let the lioness remain undisturbed and resume my male pattern ostrich imitation. Why push for an emotional response I might not like? That sounded Robert-ish.
The morning beer felt good; alleviating some of my headache. I only had the one glass, then tea. Promises, promises. I was never a tea fan. Sweet and fruity iced tea – raspberry or mango was ok; Captain Picard's Earl Grey –yuck. Alas, no coffee. Deal with it, tubby.
So many worse things than a lack of coffee for a great king to confront in the miasma of medieval life. For example, Ser Raymun was intent on cajoling me into a hunt on his lands. Aside from never having taken an animal's life except through inadvertent vehicular animal-icide, sure, I've just been lugging my new lard ass on a horse for the first time ever the last two weeks straight. "An excellent idea, Ser Raymun," I agreed with faux enthusiasm. #FakeNews "Perhaps we can fill your larder to help with this evening's feast. Remind me again, what other Riverland lords will be joining us?"
"Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah. And blah, blah, blah."
The knightly lord's enthusiasm at potentially bankrupting his House for the pleasure of his king was a bit spooky. Maybe it was #Fake too. Probably just a cultural values thing I wouldn't understand. I should probably ask ... Cersei, I guess ... what the expected royal quid was for Ser Raymun's quo in an instance like this. Expensive gift. Some minor royal monopoly. A position at court for a relative. My largesse flowth over more than just my belt.
Of the names and locations Lord Darry rattled off, I only definitively remembered Tytos Blackwood. There were lordlings coming from a few places I had heard of: Saltpans, Lord Harroway Town, and of course Harrenhal - though it was apparently the noble born castellan and not old Lady Whent who was coming to pay homage.
'Homage? That's disgusting.' I snickered to myself at the 'Life of Brian' reference; drawing a few curious, discrete looks for no one had said anything remotely humorous. I might not be me anymore, but I was still me. I might suck at music lyrics, but I remembered a crap load of Python. I started humming the tune to "Life's a piece shit when you look at it," and then stuffed a hardboiled egg into my enormous mouth.
The guard outside her door shook his head no as I passed by on my way back to my quarters. Fine by me. Denial, not just a river in Egypt.
Yet again I was clothed or re-clothed. How these "hunting" clothes were any different than my riding clothes was beyond my fashion sense. Though, Tyrek and Lumpy had strong opinions. So I simply let them fight it out between themselves, then thanked them once an acceptable compromise was reached and I had given my royal nod of consent along with a kind word.
Tyrek, having ridden back to King's Landing with me, had gotten a bit used to my "excessive" use of thanks. Lancel still looked uneasy at any gesture of appreciation I sent his Justin Bieber ass looking way. Oh there's a trap I intend laying your way, buddy. Never fear. Just not yet.
Once fully donned in my slaughter house regalia, Lumpy asked which wine I wished to take with me. There are traps and then there are traps. My answer surprised him again. "A spot of beer, but mostly tea. Well … two spots."
Ser Raymun hid his disappointment moderately well when I asked "the children" whether they wished to come on the hunt. I liked this never having to hear "no" thing. It's good to be the King. Have I said that before?
Tommen begged off. There were kittens to find and play with. Really? Every time. Did someone drop you on your head as a baby. I simply had to expand the range of the boy's hobbies. Sweet was not necessarily interesting.
Myrcella bust a huge smile; then said, "I won't tell mother." I winked at her.
I couldn't tell whether Joffrey assumed his presence was mandatory anyway or if he had actual interest – look, sweet little things to torture and kill, Joffy.
I knew I'd rather sit on my fat ass all day. There were several books and scrolls in Ser Raymun's bed chamber. I'd picked up and done a quick flip through of "The Seven Pointed Star" at some point with my copious three seconds of unaccounted for non-sleeping time. Privacy? What privacy? It's not so good being the king sometimes. When the hell did Cersei ever find the opportunity to shag Jaime?
As we mounted up and Ser Raymun started on the litany of which beasts were most available and where, I laughed so hard I broke into a coughing fit – hey, beer, offered by Lumpy, don't mind if I do – when he identified a spot well known for boars.
Finally, breath regained, "Ahhh, thank you no, Ser. I recently pledged myself to avoid the … pleasures of boar hunting until I was ... less fat."
"Your Grace is as strong and fit as he ever was," my host automatically protested.
I snorted a small laugh. Fat ass kissers; all of you. "We both know that is not so, my friend. Nevertheless, your offering up a boar hunt, struck a humorous note in me for some reason." Stop explaining. You don't need to. It's good to be the king. "And I think I shall avoid does and stags as well." I pointed at the coat of arms on my jerkin.
"And what about lions, father?" Joffrey asked.
"Only to save my own life," I answered with a grin.
"We could just kill the sheep and goats," I heard the Hound grumble loudly from behind me as I rode with Joffrey.
"Did you say something, Dog?" "my son" snarled.
We were in fact riding through a pasture, the livestock fleeing at our approach, on the way to where some bears – perfectly acceptable prey, so long as I didn't have to close one – were reputed to den up.
"A waste of bloody time. There'll be only one if we find it and who gets the kill?" he griped, the inference obvious.
I turned to look back at the man challenging me without outright challenging me. Gods, you're an ugly, ugly, scary looking monster of a fuck.
For the umpteenth time, as I studied the horror that was Sandor Clegane's face – trying for a strong, fearless Robert look, lines from the Steve Martin movie Roxanne came to me.
"Whatever you do, don't stare."
"I'm not gonna stare."
"None of us would. Then you get there, and feel yourself not staring."
"Then you think, it's obvious I'm not staring. So you look, and you think, 'I'm staring.' So you say, 'this is ridiculous,' and you take a GOOD LOOK. And you think, 'I'm looking at a man who, when he washes his face, loses the bar of soap.'"
But in this case, it wasn't a modern day Cyrano De Bergerac losing the soap up his nose. Instead, it was a medieval horror who would lose it into the gap of missing flesh in his cheek. I shuddered.
"What?!" he challenged me.
I smiled evilly. Then, in a booming voice, proclaimed, "Ser Raymun! My son and his dog shall have the honor of delivering first blows upon our prey when we discover them!"
"Father? Truly?" Joffrey shouted happily.
Clegane's eyes, staring into mine, simply narrowed suspiciously.
Bad plan. Bad plan. Bad plan.
No, it wasn't even a plan. Like an idiot, I just went with my gut ... with my hate. Can I hate fictional characters when they turn up as real? Yet another question to save for that multi-verse ethics class in philosophy, should I ever get to register for it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Cersei will kill me. Kill, kill, kill ME! If anything, even a hangnail, is torn off of her precious Joffrey.
The little tall shit doesn't seem nervous, though; does he? Only excited.
Well, it was a typical rash Robert gesture. "Sure son, go ahead and have the first swipe at a pissed off beer." Ahhh, beer. I mean bear. I'd quickly drunk all the beer that Lumpy had brought and then started bumming long chugs of wine from the skins of several knights and lordlings in passing. More typical Robert in action. Congrats on staying in character.
"My chief huntsman says we are near, your Grace. My Prince," Ser Raymun announced.
I had heard the man clear as day. Was repeating things I'd already heard everyone's job around the king? Like Sigourney Weaver in Galaxy Quest? As the rocky knoll in the woods came closer, by some sort of silent agreement, the lesser hanger-ons and non-useful members of the hunt had faded into the background, leaving barely a dozen, certainly no more than a score, of us lucky ones.
"Father?" Joffrey asked eagerly.
I looked about. "Shouldn't there be more dogs?" I wondered aloud. Three muzzled ones, all very large and fierce looking, whimpered anxiously and strained at their leashes; held barely by some grizzled and frumpy gray haired man close by the chief huntsman. At least Myrcella had been left back a good ways.
"And spoil the sport, your Grace," someone scoffed.
I started turning my mount and twisting in the saddle, trying to pick out which macho prick had gainsaid me. I really should put a stop to this ... madness.
"Here's the spear, my Prince."
I looked over, surprised. When did Joffrey dismount? Things were moving too fast. "Clegane?"
An unexpected hand grabbed a thigh, hard. I looked down into that mask of revulsion. "He'll live," the scarred face spat in obvious disgust at my nervous, fearful persona. His breath stank of sour wine and death.
"Unleash the hounds!"
With howls they took off like a shot, racing for the rubble strewn incline.
Joffrey and Clegane trotted after; one holding a not so ridiculously long spear and the other only his bare blade.
Most of the others in the party were already dismounted and arming themselves.
REE-EEKIT!
My head snapped up. One of the big dogs was tumbling through the air, bloody viscera spewing out of a huge gash in its belly. That escalated quickly.
A bevy of piggish squeals erupted from the rock and brush thicket on the slope.
"Boar!" multiple voices took throat.
Fuck me. Really?
"Spears damnit! Spears!" men bellowed, rushing for their horses.
A challenging squeal grew louder … closer.
"Get down, your Grace!" Tyrek or Lancel cried.
A monster charged straight at me. I could only stare at it in utter fascination. Huge. Thick, sharp, deadly, already blooded tusks stuck out from its snout.
I tried to yank my horse's head out of the way. The other hand slapped helpless against the saddle searching vainly for a long, long weapon of any sort.
Twang. Twang.
The boar grunted once. I saw an arrow appear in its side, almost to the fletching. The beast barely slowed.
"AHHHHH!" I screamed, tumbling out of my seat.
THUD.
I hit hard. My body and mind jarred. Luckily nothing heavy fell on top of me. I tried to roll away from my flailing horse.
I didn't see a white cloak anywhere as I spun desperately about.
The monster swung back around towards me.
Twang. Twang.
Unfathomable piggy eyes glared at me. They weren't Boros Blount's piggy eyes. These were angry, malicious. Growing larger. Larger. LARGER.
Snickt!
Something bright and silvery sliced down and the dull grey brown head of the boar erupted in a sprout of blood from its massive shoulders. It bounced once, twice, and came to rest, tusks thrust forward a foot from my quivering fat belly.
I looked up into Sandor Clegane's snarling, foul face. "Good dog," I whispered. "Good dog."
I raised a goblet yet again. I was hot and sweaty and very, very happy. I was still alive.
Cersei was cold, icy angry, and very, very sober.
I tried expressing my joy to her multiple times as we feasted that night with an even larger number of lords and lordlings of the Riverlands.
She would have nothing of it.
The boar Ser Raymun served in abundance that night did not taste as good to her palette as it almost might have had. Tough shit, bitch!
Eventually, to escape the chill, I got up to walk around the Great Hall in between courses.
I asked Ser Quincy Cox how good sea trade was, and with whom, at the Saltpans.
The Hound was toasted.
I queried Ser Benjamin Roote about how the river traffic coming down the Trident to Lord Harroway's Town was distributed in quantity and type between the Red, Green, and Blue Forks.
The Hound was toasted.
Lord(ling) Fylp Runnel was made to chart out the stunted branches of House Whent; with not even Walder Frey being able to plant seed in a Whent's unfertile soil. Then the castellan of Harrenhal had been commanded to explain the equally withered vines of House Tully to me. The Stark children, which I hadn't thought possible, looked even more valuable than I, a moderately learned ASOIAF FanFic writer, had ever suspected.
The Hound was toasted.
Lord Tytos Blackwood had been given the place of honor of sitting beside Cersei. So some times, instead of wandering, I simply stood between the two, resting my arms on the backs of both their chairs to converse. A convivial and interesting enough dinner table companion. Clever too. The one time he brought up the Brackens I immediately needled him about having so many sons and Lord Jonos so many daughters. He let the unsubtle jab slide off his back and never mentioned their feud in my hearing again. Smart man.
That was the one moment I thought Cersei almost smiled.
And the Hound was toasted yet again.
And again.
And again.
I put a large, meaty finger up to my slobbering lips and very loudly said, "SHHHHHHHHHHHH!" to the whole of Darry's Great Hall
Five minutes earlier, Cersei had made a barely polite excuse (read lie) to Ser Raymun of seeing "the children" off to bed. Joffrey, not viewing himself as a child, had received a resounding slap to the back of the head when he tried to decline the honor. I gave the tall little bastard a conspiratorial wink of condolence.
A loud roar of "WHAT!" contrarily greeted my command.
I wave my hands rapidly, demanding quiet. The thunder dimmed sufficiently. "I plan," I announced slowly. "On extending my royal per-per-perogatives to the Queen ... to-to-tonight," I declared with a wide smile.
HUZZAH!
"SHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
I tiptoed up the steps of the Plowman's Keep.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I turned back to my escort. "SHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Ser Arys, Lancel, Tyrek, and several pages looked at me like … What?
"SHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I reiterated.
I got to the top. "Her Grace?" I asked the double pair of guards. His and hers, for his and hers' quarters.
They shook their heads no. She really must have been putting "the children" to bed.
"Good, you can go."
All four men looked at me like … What?
Or maybe she had found a non-Jaime selection for putting horns on Robert again. I laughed. "Go," I commanded again. Then I turned to my posse. "You too. Goes. I have a surplisze fer me-lady," I grooved.
"Your Grace," Ser Arys dutifully began.
"SHHHHHHHHHHHH! Go," I urged. "My royal per-per-perogatives-s-s-s. Oh, I'll need that." I snatched a spear and a cloak from one of the passing bed room guards.
My head was tipped down. Double and triple chins mushing into each other. My actually bony chin tucked almost down to my chest as it hid inside the voluminous cloak. My eyes were heavy. I felt good. Real good.
"Where are the others!?" that peevish voice snapped like a whip.
My eyes popped open. "We never just talk anymore Cersei," I chuckled.
"What!? Who!? Robert, what foolishness is this."
"A husband standing guard for his beautiful wife, far from foolish-ish," I declared.
"You're drunk."
Duh.
"Go to bed," she said with a strong tone of resignation.
"Not without a kiss."
"No."
"The king does not ask, he commands."
"No, Robert. You won't have me again like that."
"No," I chortled. "Not like that. Don't think I'm up for it. I am drunk after all."
She didn't respond verbally. Her lips tightened though; that much I could see.
"Was it so horrible? I remember hearing a few sounds that hinted at pleasure" I let out a few porn whimpers.
"Damn you." She tried to stride past me.
I blocked her. I felt strong. I was strong. I held her, spun her around, folded my arms over hers.
"Let me pass," she hissed.
"Not without a kiss."
My powerful arms moved as she took several deep breaths. "Very well," she acknowledged with the enthusiasm of a condemned man.
How not very erotic.
She tried to turn to face me. "T-t-t-t," I chastised her, keeping her in place with one thick arm. The hand on the other arm searched like it had the night before. "I think we should detour over to the Twins," I announced to distract her. "Walder Frey's a rich, ugly bastard; he should spend some coin entertaining his betters don't you think?"
Cersei just tapped her foot in response to indicate her lack of patience, disgust, and whatever else the hell a trapped woman feels.
"Do you think your Aunt Genna might be …"
"What are you doing?" she hissed, finally taking a note things were more than they seemed.
"Hold still," I whispered a tad ungently. The silk clothe was once more going over her eyes.
"You promised you wouldn't," she pleaded. Some panic definitely there.
"I did. And I won't. It's just for the kiss," I promised. I'd like to say she didn't struggle at all. The knot tightened into place, and then I turned her around to face me. God damn she was beautiful. There could be no doubt she felt my erection pressed against her belly.
"No Cersei," I whispered, placing tiny little kisses along one side of her luscious mouth.
A hand dropped down to grab that supple ass.
"No Robert." I squeezed her lower lip between my two larger ones.
The other hand lightly clasped the back of her neck and tilted it slow as I released her lip and nipped soft, soft touches here and there on that lovely ruby canvas.
"Not Jonquil."
I licked across her lips. I thought I detected her breath change slightly. Fear? Anticipation?
"Not even that fool Florian."
Kiss after sweet kiss. Pressure now pushing back against my own lips. I felt maaaaarvelous.
"Who … who are you?" she asked with a sexy whimper.
I took advantage of her slightly open lips. My tongue thrust in. I pressed her tight against me. Her warm, moist mouth accepted me. A tiny moan escaped her throat. Her tongue intertwined with mine. I was falling … falling … falling.
My entire being groaned as I detached myself from the beautiful, blind folded, vile princess standing before me in the dim torch light of a medieval castle's hallway.
"Who are you?" she repeated quietly.
"No one," I whispered; and then slipped away.
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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 11: Part 10 - The Lord of Casterly Rock
Tywin Lannister, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and Father of House Lannister stood patiently beside the low wall on the eastern end of the curved outdoor gallery off of his private apartments - the purely business end of the gallery. From the lofty heights high up the Rock, his scrutiny saw far and wide. He often came here around this time; a regular break for his eyes from the scrolls of rulership, to stretch his legs in order to keep his middle lean, and, to ponder with only the sounds of breeze, birds, and sea as company.
Not that business did not occur on the western side of his personal galley too. Rich merchants sometimes needed to be wooed over fine wine instead of strong armed or simply dictated too. Critical banner lords on occasion must appear to be held in confidence; appreciated. Rare, powerful foreign guests shown every facet of Lannister strength as friendship was offered. These things could be better accomplished at that end, while watching over the magnificent view of his City as the sun dipped down towards the dark surging waters and salt spray of the Sunset Sea.
From where he stood now, though; Tywin could better take the pulse of his demesne's lifeblood. The two huge arteries of commerce and wealth and strength came down out of the Westerland's heights and rocky hills to merge in front of his great castle's east face, before passing on to Lannisport. The Gold Road and the River Road carried nobles, gold, guards, steel, merchants, silver, craftsman, fine goods, shepherds, livestock, farmers, wheat, laborers, sweat, hope and scum came by four feet, by two feet, and by wagon wheel. They beat a rhythm into the rock and earth that Tywin's innate senses could feel reverberating all the way up through the strong granite of Casterly Rock.
He stoically watched it all flow past as the mid-day sun warmed the exposed half of his face and the top of his shaved head. Seventeen days had passed since receiving the King's warning, causing him to spend more of his precious spare time gazing West than was his normal want. The sea and the trade that passed upon it were important too, only a fool would say otherwise. But it was not the basis of his house's great strength.
Today, however, …
"I thought I would find you here," the familiar voice announced.
"Kevan," he replied, acknowledging his brother's presence, while ignoring the implication of the comment by keeping his steely green eyes firmly set out there.
"It will be good to have Jaime home. A shame the King did not think to send Lancel or Tyrek with him."
"Casterly Rock is no longer my son's home," he declared; yet again setting the boundary for the near two decades disagreement.
"He was born here. He was raised here. This will always be his home," Kevan stated simply, with an uncle's love; not having been the father betrayed.
Tywin did not answer; as immovable on the point as the Rock was to the heavens and the tides.
Kevan having said his peace, smartly moved on. "What shall we do about Baelish?"
Tyrion. None of the fraud he claimed to have uncovered so far by the former Master of Coin had involved any of his loans to the Iron Throne. "Nothing. The King has risen this lordling to an emissary and promised him the Wardenship of the East. As yet our house has no claim of ill debt against him."
"And if the King's letter? …"
Tywin waved a hand dismissively; patience was seldom an issue for him. "I shall see what my goodson has to say to me when I hold it."
Tyrion's recent spate of ravens had been filled with news of import, nothing of wine and whores; except in mention of some of Lord Baelish's seedier financial ventures. Well known ventures for any with even a small modicum of knowledge of King's Landing's inner workings, but of the sort Tyrion no doubt took pleasure in commenting upon … and partaking of.
The Small Council was in greater upheaval than even the inevitable death of old Jon Arryn would have predicted. Surprises, good and ill. Some houses rising a bit. Some falling. A King acting with almost a hint of rulership … and then Tyrion's promotion. At least he so far had shown his duty, taking the useful lickspittle Pycelle's role of information purveyor to House Lannister.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched his brother smile slightly. He rearranged his face in response; knowing that some physical clue had given away at least part of his thoughts. The brothers knew each other well.
"He made an excellent Master of the Drains; and at only sixteen. Given a chance, Tyrion will do well on the Small Council."
Cersei. Fickle, drunk Robert Baratheon. The vicious, brilliant Olenna Tyrell. Hard, competent Stannis Baratheon. Tywin Lannister would not bet a … there! The Lannister Lion banner, promptly followed by more such of his mighty house's banners, had just become visible as the Gold Road took that last approaching turn out of the hills.
"Excellent speed Jaime made. He should have enough time to bath the grime of the road off before dinner," Kevan commented warmly at the thought of the reunion.
Tywin had expected nothing less. His and Joanna's son embodied all the martial skills that any of the great, no greatest, warriors from the Age of Heroes would envy; which included unparalleled horsemanship. And all the holdfasts, large and small, along the Gold Road within the Westerlands had obeyed his command. Ravens had updated him on Jaime's progress each day since his lost son had ridden back into the domains he should rightly one day inherit.
Jaime Lannister's arrival, now, was anything but unexpected in Tywin's mind.
"Be welcome, Lord Baelish. And partake of all Casterly Rock's hospitality," Tywin intoned formally from his throne in the Golden Gallery.
The short, slight man, the dust of the road only haphazardly sponged off his fine made clothes, bowed in return. King Robert's new emissary rose up a beat sooner than was properly respectful to a Lord Paramount. And his face bore a lazy grin that proclaimed himself unimpressed with neither Tywin nor the vast wealth displayed in his castle built into a mountain.
This style of behavior had long been anticipated. And Tywin cared little for it one way or the other. The odious worm was a royal emissary; thus certain protocols were required, regardless that both men believed the gestures of proper civility completely unnecessary ... or truly deserved.
"More pleasurable words have I seldom heard, my lord. I feared the horses would beat the life out of my poor, miserable body for the pace that your son, Ser Jaime, set. It may take a month for me to feel properly alive again."
"A week," Tywin pronounced coolly. There would be no dispute on this matter.
Petyr Baelish did not flinch. The intended to be annoying smile only grew wider. "Then a week must resuscitate me sufficiently to deal with the salt addled mouth and brain of Balon Greyjoy," he japed. "Might you oblige me with a ship or point me in the direction of one already scheduled for Pyke, Lord Tywin? I fear I would not know where best to look for one in Lannisport."
He let the inappropriate, ungranted use of his given name fall off his back. Potentially clever of Baelish to seek his aid. How precarious did the man suspect his position to be? Did the worm underestimate Tyrion? Did Tyrion over or underestimate Baelish? "As Warden of the West, it is my duty to give full aide to a royally appointed emissary seeking to maintain the King's peace. Either method is available as you wish it, Lord Baelish."
The little man smiled that fake, sycophantic smile which Tywin remembered from the dozen or so unmemorable times he had spent in the presence of the former Master of Coin during his infrequent sojourns to King's Landing. Tywin, on the other hand, while amiable enough when the situation warranted, never smiled.
"And is the peace threatened, Lord Tywin? Have you discovered any news that supports the King's … suspicions … as accurate?"
The question about the King was asked in a disparaging tone. A manner Tywin might reciprocate a loud in private to Kevan, and to no one else. "They might, Lord Baelish," he declared firmly. "Ships manifests viewed in quantity indicate the possibility of a re-arming effort. An unexpected war galley sighting here and there. A drunken ironborn claim overheard; a rumor picked up in a tavern by a loyal Westerland sailor. There is evidence that Balon Greyjoy might be showing more subtlety than one would expect from an Ironborn. More I will not say in open court."
With blatantly wide eyes, Baelish cast his vision around the moderately attended Golden Gallery, before coming back to stare at Tywin on his golden throne. "Wise, Lord Tywin. Very wise." Not meaning a word of it.
"My Steward will show you to your quarters and see after your needs. Someone will come for you later to see if you have recovered sufficiently to dine with me. Perhaps we can talk more then, Lord Baelish." The generous offer was not said generously.
The worm took his dismissal with his usual attitude of just shy of insolence.
As Baelish took his time in withdrawing, Tywin stared at his son and he stared back at his father. Silently. The Lord of Casterly Rock's face grew stiffer as Jaime's grew … amused.
Finally the silent battle of wills broke. "Lord Father, I am here as King Robert requested. How may I assist Casterly Rock and the Westerlands?"
Tywin stood up. "You have a letter for me from the King. Bring it to my quarters. I trust you remember where they are. Attend me, Kevan." Court was dismissed.
"So you saw no need to kill Lord Petyr?" Kevan asked as the three Lannisters entered Tywin's inner sanctum.
"Tyrion's been telling secrets," Jaime laughed lightly. "No, Baelish was a good little boy. Vylarr and I watched him like a hawk. Nothing. No attempts to subvert the men. Still …"
"Yes?!" Tywin snapped impatiently. For his son's careless amusement at frivolities to his duties, he did have little patience. Baelish and the worm's possible machinations were the last thing in his thoughts right then.
Jaime smirked, as ever, in response. "Vylarr got the idea that perhaps some of our men were already on Littlefinger's payroll. So he began watching for anyone who seemed to purposefully avoid contact with the little whoremaster."
Tywin grunted in surprise and appreciation. Acknowledging to himself that Vylarr was a clever and worthy captain in his Red Cloaks. As the others continued talking, he walked around his work desk and sat down, putting the hard oak between him and his still standing son and brother.
"There were four or five in total we wound up suspecting."
"I'll see that they are split up and assigned duties outside the Rock and Lannisport immediately," Kevan dutifully interjected.
"So what else did my beloved brother tell you?" Jaime asked, hiding his tension as he almost always had since a child behind a façade of easy going, droll charm.
"That you are a hero," Kevan answered generously.
"I don't know about that," Jaime admitted. To which Tywin silently agreed.
"Why did you tell no one?" his uncle asked, voice suddenly turning far far harsher and condemning than he ever used with Jaime.
"Would it have mattered? They saw what they wanted to see that day."
"My son. My son the 'Kingslayer'. Yes. Yes it would have mattered," the Father of House Lannister declared with icy hot vigor. That deed had stained his son, stained him, stained all of House Lannister.
"You wanted to see a letter, father. Here it is," Jaime stated, closing himself off to reason and duty as always.
The bundled parchment was thick. Seal intact. Tywin broke the heavy wax stamp. Immediately four smaller letters fell out; labelled: #1 - Ser Jaime, #2 – Lord Tywin, #3 – Ser Jaime, and #4 – Lord Tywin. There was writing on the inside of the packet.
Lord Tywin, I hope this packet of letters finds you hale and in good spirits. Please forgive the odd nature of my correspondence. Some of it pertains directly to your son, Ser Jaime; who I hope has arrived safely at Casterly Rock. Please open the numbered and named letters within in the order identified and in each other's presence. Robert Baratheon.
It appears our King wishes to play a game," Tywin announced. He handed the number one noted letter over to Jaime.
He smirked in accepting it and demolishing the wax; followed by a sarcastic snort of "Ha!" and Jaime flinging the brief missive down on the table in front of Tywin. The father picked up that which had not amused his son.
Ser Jaime Lannister,
I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Grand Master of the Order of the Crowned Stag, in recognition of valiant deeds performed in the defense of the Iron Throne and the Realm at great risk to yourself, do make, create, and appoint you, oh honorable knight, for installation to the Order of the Crowned Stag.
Should you accept and attend investiture to this brotherhood, you will be required to make the following oath: "I swear to uphold the Realm and faithfully observe the statutes of this honorable Order."
In the Seven's light of your actions in saving the City of King's Landing from utter destruction, I can think of no knight more deserving of being this new Order's first, honorable member.
Respectfully,
Ser Robert Baratheon
Tywin perused the words, noting the potential trap inherent in the phrase 'observe the statutes of this honorable Order' when this non-existent Stag's club could not possible have any so called statutes yet. Though signing the letter as Ser instead of as King had been an unexpectedly deft touch. "Not a game, my goodson is looking for a new toy."
He sighed and then opened up the letter numbered two and addressed to him.
Lord Tywin Lannister,
I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Grand Master of the Order of the Crowned Stag, in recognition of your long, arduous, and successful succor of the Iron Throne and the Realm as Hand of the King, do make, create, and appoint you, oh honorable lord and knight, for installation to the Order of the Crowned Stag.
Should you accept and attend investiture to this brotherhood, you will be required to make the following oath: "I swear to uphold the Realm and faithfully observe the statutes of this honorable Order."
For your many years of dutiful service, I can think of no better gift than uniting honorable father and son in brotherhood.
Respectfully,
Ser Robert Baratheon
"What did it say, Tywin?" Kevan asked cautiously, after his older brother did nothing visible for more than a minute – a normally dangerous sign.
It took another moment for Tywin to feel assured of himself. "The King provides a gesture that he hopes will rend the rift within our house," he said rigidly, as to not reveal the depths of his anger.
"Oh?" Jaime asked uncaringly.
"I am to become a member of Robert's drinking and whoring club as well."
"Hahahahahaha," burst Jaime. "Surely Tyrion will be asked next. Hahahahaha."
Tywin's fist slammed on the table. "Open your letter!" The Lion roared.
His son obliged, without quite Petyr Baelish level of impudence.
Then.
CRASH!
The desk split nearly in twain as two exceptionally strong arms powered down into the oak, shattering it.
"Fuck him! I'll kill him. He can't do this to me. That wretch! I'll split his fat belly and crush his pea skull! GODSDAMNIT! NO! I WON'T ALLOW IT! NEVER!" Jaime raged. His tantrum threw him about the room like a hurricane. No piece of furniture was safe. He eventually stopped articulating words and simply screamed nonsensically to accompany the path of destruction.
Kevan quickly backed up into an unlit hearth, to put distance and hopefully enough safe room between himself and his beloved nephew.
Tywin hardly moved, observing his son act on as pure a selfish hatred as any tantrum the boy had ever thrown as a child. When the violence moved sufficiently away, he leaned forward just enough to pick up the crumbled letter off the detritus strewn floor.
Ser Jaime,
You are a great knight. You had the moral courage to do what I dare say no other knight in the entire Seven Kingdoms would have, should have done, were they in your boots. You took the words of your oath as a knight over the words you swore to become a Kingsguard.
I salute you with the utmost respect.
However, I must sadly point out to you that in a different regard, you failed your oath as a Kingsguard. For sixteen years I have mostly breathed, walked, and slept within King's Landing and the Red Keep. Not once, as was your duty, did you ever warn me that large quantities of wildfire lay sitting about, waiting just one minor accident, to break open and threaten my life, your King's life, with green fiery death.
The good you have given to the realm is greater than the possible evil that might have erupted, so I will neither condemn you nor seek to punish you except in the following two minor regards.
As of this moment, you are hereto removed as a member of the Kingsguard. Please dispose of your white cloak with the honor it deserves.
And second, for the remainder of your life, you are no longer allowed purchase within the walls of King's Landing.
Please do not take this badly. I believe my judgment fair. And hope that in time you see it that way too.
Live a long and prosperous life, Jaime Lannister, as heir and future lord of Casterly Rock.
Proclaimed in the year 298, by Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm
For perhaps the first time since his beloved Joanna was alive, Tywin Lannister genuinely smiled.
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High Plains Robert - The Inevitable ASOIAF SI (Act One) by High Plains Drifter
 Books » A song of Ice and Fire Rated: M, English, Fantasy & Adventure, Words: 89k+, Favs: 1k+, Follows: 1k+, Published: Oct 2, 2017 Updated: Feb 15, 2018 624Chapter 12: Part 11 - Baiting But Not Bedding
The praying mantis like mating dance I had started with Cersei took on a near every other day rhythm during the near two week journey from Darry to the Twins. First, "Robert" pays attention to his "wife." If she shows signs at breakfast of having recuperated sufficiently from the last tango (e.g., she is at breakfast and willing to talk to me), Cersei is begged by my utmost sincere ass kissing to spend at least part of the day riding beside me. Whereupon if "Yes" is the answer, my brown-nosery increases exponentially and I both complement her (looks, clothes, hair, riding skill, parenting, jewelry, cleverness, etc.) and ask her opinions on matters of Westeros import. I listen very intently, doing my poor male best to never interrupt her as she speaks. And I ask relevant questions for clarification or additional "wisdom", never as a point of doubt, to prove I was in fact paying attention to every word out of those luscious, luscious, vile lips.
Second, at that day's dinner, whether at an inn or in some "wholly inappropriate for a Queen" holdfast, the worship of her goddess-hood carries on. And if after all this amount of playing good boy "Robert," Cersei continues to show, well usually not exactly interest, say tolerance of me, then I oh so politely attempt to extend my ample presence to her sleeping chamber. Once ensconced – never a sure thing with Cersei – sometimes there is flattery, occasionally playful teasing, and the one time when I even brought a too handsome and conceited singer to serenade the lioness in her den.
Twice I misread Cersei badly enough I did not see the slap until her claws were raking my cheek. Or maybe she was just too tired or ill-tempered to continue her play acting towards "Robert" to its inevitable, hoped for, conclusion. Or maybe she simply was on her period. Who the fuck knows, its Cersei Lannister we are talking about? And I'm a clueless man with limited social skills when dealing with beautiful, strong willed women (or just about anyone).
But the times when I sensed the mood was right and "No One" came out with his silk ribbon, those alluring deep green eyes became easier and easier to read in the brief moment before she was blindfolded: heightened tension between desire and loathing. Other than the introductory visual deprivation move, I never used the same foreplay trick twice in a row. Pure kissing, lips and neck. Just licking, fondling, and nibbling those lovely, lovely breasts and exquisitely sensitive nipples, with or without her top on. Caressing her flanks and belly and thighs and ass through her sheer undergarments. Tied up. Not tied up. And then walking away, or threatening to. Until …
Only when she pleaded, clutching at or pressing her sweaty, magnificent body again my cockstand, would my lips or fingers return to visit her moist cleft. Those rare moments I felt like a God! Of course I knew she might have been faking. But I pretended that that couldn't possibly be the case. I was a God after all.
Still, hard as it is to imagine, and it was hard (pun fully intended), my pants never once came off. Then she would have imagined she had won. And I? I would have lost, but not in any way Cersei would have understood. Perhaps I was putting too fine of a morally pointless Bill Clinton like legal distinction on what qualified as sexual relations. If Westeros didn't kill me first, I would one day break my wedding vows; just not with her. Besides, without Jaime around to illicitly scratch that last itch I left her with, keeping Cersei hot and bothered all the way to Winterfell helped the narrative threads I was hoping to merge.
There were also subtler ways of improving "Robert's" standing in Cersei's eyes. Castle Darry's woodworkers had done me proud.
"Haha, watch this father!"
Click-click
"A double jump, excellent move, Tommen."
"Knight me," the boy said proudly.
Purposefully playing "Squires" poorly was pretty dull, after the first dozen times. Nevertheless , it was still much more entertaining than having to listen to my youngest "son" talk about incessantly about kittens. Would a little character development with this one have killed you, George?
I shuddered a little at the sudden realization Tommen might start naming his knighted checkers things like, "Ser Puss."
"A long time ago in a land far far away over the Sunset Sea, it is a time of rebellion against an evil Witch King and his dark magic wielding minions. A secret order of noble sorcerer knights, known as the Jedi and long thought to have been destroyed, are reborn and now strike from hidden holdfasts against the forces of wicked Plagueis."
"At least it isn't a story about Aerys again," Joffrey muttered.
"Shhhhh" both Myrcella and Tommen hushed their older, bullying brother.
"The Jedi have won a victory of sorts, but with it comes great danger. The Shadowbinder Jyn, at the cost of her own life, has stolen the Witch King's plans for an ultimate weapon: a giant mechanical steel dragon capable of burning whole cities down."
"Why not a real dragon?"
"Joff," pleaded Tommen.
"The plans have been smuggled aboard Princess Leia's yacht and she races home over the seas towards her City of Alderaan with them. But she is pursued by the Witch King's fleet under the command of his greatest general, Lord Vader. And this is where our story starts, as the Princess' small ship is bombarded by fire balls thrown from the catapults of Vader's mighty war galley the Star Saber."
"Father, why does the game end when the Queen is captured? And not the King?"
"Well, Myrcella, if a King can't protect his own Queen, what good is he? He deserves to lose. Now stop asking questions and make a move. Or else I'll think you're stalling."
"Alright," the eight year old agreed a bit grumpily. A finger tapped a piece slowly while she looked to see how I'd react.
"Are you going to move your bish … ahem … lord? Or will you let my man-at-arms take him?" It was rather a no brainer move for even my amateur eye. The cleverest thing I'd done with my game play was just to rename Chess to the more Westeros appropriate sounding "Maidenvault."
"Father, you're better than this," whined an exasperated Joffrey.
"Your shield and Ser Aron have made an excellent start in your training. But one day when you are a knight, you will have squires of your own to train. And the best way to learn how to do something is to teach another, isn't that right Sandor?"
"Killing a man is the best way to learn how to kill the next man," the Hound replied scornfully.
"Why would I bother to teach a pimple brained squire anything?"
"Come on Joffrey, stab at me again," I commanded.
The boy rolled his eyes, then lightning fast his blunt tourney blade feinted out.
I bit and shifted … no …
Tang!
I didn't pull my shield back fast enough. But at least I disrupted the thrust. Probably only a flesh wound. "Now what did I do wrong?" I asked patiently.
"Father!" the tall little shit whined again.
Parent time with the psychopath and learning swordplay 101. Two birds with one stone. What could go wrong?
The wheelhouse thudded along over what seemed to my big ass a particularly well rutted section of the Kingsroad. If the lioness wouldn't come out to play, sometimes the Stag must seek her out in her lair.
"C7," Myrcella called out
"Poo! You sank my war galley," an unhappy Tommen exclaimed.
"I got winners," "Robert" announced merrily to his "children."
Cersei pretended not to notice what was going on, but I caught her frequent quick glimpses over her needlework to me and the "children."
"I'm not interested tonight, Robert," she said meaningfully as my hand slid suggestively along her thigh beneath the dinner table. The signals had been admittedly mixed all night as we ate side by side in the Inn, no lordling to placate in his holdfast by sitting him and his dreary wife between the two of us.
"Oh, I wasn't terribly interested in that tonight either," I said breezily, announcing a very clear departure from where my interests had in fact been very tightly focused of late. Cersei stiffened ever so slightly in surprise, and I imagined displeasure, at not being wanted by her dolt of a husband.
Oh I was the hunter and she the prey I desperately stalked in the game we pleasurably kept replaying, but in my approach I had shown that she always had right of first refusal. Though, to be fair, if she didn't invoke it, trying to refuse once the hunt had commenced, was much tougher for the doe.
I debated feigning a yawn, but decided against it. "I thought a quiet night. Just the two of us."
"Ha. Quiet? You are a pathetic liar, Robert," she smirked, apparently reassured of the power she held over me and Big Robert.
"To you? My Queen? The unmatched Cersei? Never!" I faux roared.
The smile of triumph widened.
"I was just thinking of a bottle of wine, the two of us, and perhaps a game of Backcastle."
Those emerald eyes narrowed suspiciously … unhappily; triumph now in question. "You want to play one of your new children's games … with me?"
"Oh, we could place a wager on each game … to make things interesting." My hand slipped back onto her thigh.
A wicked little smile pursed those lips. "What sort of wager?"
"hhhhhmmmmmn," I muttered with exaggeration, free hand stroking my beard. "Loser must take off a piece of clothing?"
Cersei's peals of laughter caught everyone in the room's attention.
Score one for strip backgammon … I hoped.
"I was thinking of asking Lord Walder to send an assortment of Freys with us to Winterfell," I proposed to Cersei seemingly out of the blue. Our caravan was off the Kingsroad and only another day's travel from the Twins. To make the journey faster, what with this originally unplanned for stop, the wheelhouse and a smaller contingent had continued on. We would meet back up with them later, near the start of the Neck.
"Gods, Robert, where are you getting these ideas?" No attempt at hiding her contempt for my evident stupidity in her voice – always the firm basis for a sound fake marital relationship.
I shrugged. On horseback, can anyone ever really see anyone else shrugging? Then decided a stronger response was needed. "Why do you think I'm asking you now, woman?!" I said with some aggression, but not too much. Bluster to remind her I am Robert, but not so to remind her of her hatred of Robert.
"You certainly didn't ask me about adding Tyrion to the Small Council," she blistered back.
Damn harpy. She wouldn't let that go. She really, really, really hated her non-lover brother. She would never let the vitriol go. I couldn't wait #SARCASM! for her to find out what I had done to Jaime. Gosh, that would go super swell when she found out.
For my sake, there better not be any damned raven from Casterly Rock waiting for her at the Twins. Jaime had probably already arrived; unless Littlefinger had arranged to off him. Win-win if that happened. Tywin could then aim his debt paying far from me and the rest of the realm. As for later on our journey, if Jaime lived ... no doubt I could get Ned to run interference on Westeros' equivalent of email for me once we got to Winterfell.
"Haven't you drunk and whored enough for the whole Small Council? To add that slut loving little sot! You …"
"ENOUGH!" the crowned stag roared. So many ways to respond … most of them not any good for my plans. Think fast. Think fast. In a quieter voice, "Tyrion won't be on the Small Council for ever. And I trust him more than Littlecock. He's probably been stealing us blind. If anyone is clever enough to figure out how, it's your grasping imp of a brother."
Cersei pouted. Then, begrudgingly, "He does have a low cunning to him," she admitted.
Words I swore Tyrion said about her in a Clash of Kings. I dropped my near hand down towards the road, going for the cheap, assuaging humor. "Very low."
She barked a laugh. Then, "How long must we abide his presence on the Small Council."
I laughed. "Oh Cersei, you are thinking too small."
Her face was caught half one way and half the next, not knowing whether I was mocking her or him.
"How long has your impish brother been hanging around the Red Keep?"
"Too long. Years," she said bitterly.
I nodded along with her. "Granted he loves Myrcella and Tommen dearly, but it's long since time he found a new home."
"Not Casterly Rock," she snarled.
I laughed again. "Tywin would rather kill Tyrion than know he would succeed him." That would logically leave Lancel as heir. Was that possibility even in her mind? Well surprise, bitch! I am definitely going to amp up pretty boy Lumpy's good qualities to you, but how? Ta-ta-ta, focus on the moment, Paul.
"Then where?" she openly pondered her hate.
"You will love this, Cersei," I declared with pride. "But keep it secret between us."
She looked at me skeptically.
"Promise," I prompted.
I saw the stubbornness start to swell in those beautiful eyes, the lovely nose clench, the skin on the flawless jawline tighten.
"You will love it," I repeated with an amused tone. "There is an heiress I can arrange his marriage to, so he'll have to move there," I added, putting a little honey in the pot. I watched as a battle fought itself across that beautiful, ugly face. Funny how often that happened.
"Very well, by the Seven I promise," she said in an aggrieved rush. "Who?!"
"What do you know of Tarth?" I asked with an amused smile.
"Tarth … why …" Cersei's eyes grew wider than I think I had yet to see them. The jaw dropped. Cersei was a stupid bitch when you got right down to it, but she damn well took her self-perceived job as Queen seriously and thus knew who all the major and most important lords all over Westeros were. Those lips made a huge "O." She snorted through that previously clenched nose. A sound started rumbling up from within that magnificent chest. "Brienne of Tarth?! Bwahahahahahahaha!" the lioness roared in delight, showing all her razor sharp incisors.
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