Cersei I

Her son was being taken from her!

Every day, Joffrey and Robert would train together, growing as close as a true father and son. It galled Cersei terribly, even if she took secret pride in the knowledge that her boy wasn't from the king's seed.

"Six weeks!" Joff said excitedly when they took a meal together. "We're counting down the days, Mother. Father is even letting me care for his armor and horse like a real squire! There's so much to learn, but I think I'm doing well. He even let me try to pick up his hammer the other day. I couldn't, of course."

The queen smiled at her son. He was a boy, after all, and tourneys would thrill him. He and Jaime were no different in this. "I'm not surprised," she told him. "You don't suit hammers, Joff. You'll be a swordsman, just like your Uncle Jaime." It took every mote of restraint she had in her being to refer to her twin thus. She couldn't slip, absolutely not. Joffrey was an honest and forthright boy who often said what was on his mind with no guile at all. If he heard the wrong thing, it might prove disastrous.

"Mayhaps," he replied noncommitally, but she could tell her son disagreed.

Cersei's lips flattened into a thin line, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Oh?"

"Not for fighting men in armor, Mother," he corrected her patiently, utterly uncaring about the silent pressure she was attempting to send his way. Her fierce boy could not be cowed. It was both a blessing and a curse.

"Then what?" Cersei demanded, her words coming out perhaps a bit shorter and sharper than she intended.

"Eh, I'm not sure. Ser Aron has me training with the lance a bit, riding at rings, tilting at quintains, you know how it is."

She did "know how it is," but most noble ladies certainly did not. "Is being a champion in the lists your ambition? Your Uncle Jaime has won quite a few tourneys, you know."

"But that's not war," Joffrey said confidently. "Training to fight is about winning wars. If I ever have to fight, I'd like something heavier. It seems Father's hammer is too much, but mayhaps a battleaxe might suit, or a mace. I'll do my best to be as skilled with the sword and the lance as I can, but mainly to develop a foundation for something else. Once I'm bigger and stronger, I'll talk to Ser Aron about other arms."

Well, that was years away in any case. The queen didn't particularly like it, but letting her little lion select his own claws was something she could accept, grudingly. Joff was more bookish than Jaime had ever been, almost reminding her of Father. He didn't really have much in the way of friends his own age, but that was to be expected. A prince must stand apart! One day, he would make a fine king, and she would stand beside him proudly.

He pushed away from the table. "Anyway, I'm off again." He took a few final bites of his piece of bread with an egg on it, swallowing the lot, and drained his milk to wash it down. "Tell my uncles I said hello, and give my love to Myrcella and little baby Tommen. Mayhaps I'll visit the nursery after I wash. Farewell, Mother!"

Then he was gone. As she watched him disappear out the door, she realized he was wearing Baratheon colors again. That black doublet looked terribly drab and clashed with his golden hair, but yet again, she was quite powerless to say aught against it.

***

The day of the tourney came at last, and Cersei had hoped to watch with her child by her side. Myrcella was still a bit young to spend all day out of doors, even in their shaded pavilion, and Tommen was just a babe. Court ladies tittered and gossiped all about her, making the queen wish to wretch. How they praised the king and especially her little lion! For once, she was thankful the boy was so young. Fending off these whores would be a terrible trial once he bloomed into manhood, she knew well.

"Sweet sister!" Tyrion greeted her, waddling up the steps to the royal box. His voice alone set her teeth on edge. Cersei took a deep, calming breath. It would not do to make a scene in front of half the court.

"Tyrion," she replied neutrally, her voice only slightly shaded with disdain.

"Joffrey sends his love. The Prince was buckling the king into his armor ere I left. Robert's belly has flattened somewhat, I noticed. I'm sure you'll be pleased."

Not at all! Robert tried to fuck her again last night! His spending time with her son must've given him the impression she might be receptive to his bestial pawing. Worse, he was only a little drunk. Thinking quickly, she offered to take him in her mouth and managed to drink his seed after a bit of effort. Practicing with Jaime saved her yet again.

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"Joff is too young to be a squire," she complained.

Tyrion laughed at her lament, as he often did. "Prince Joffrey is a terror in the yard. Ask Jaime sometime. What's more, there's some sense in that golden-shrouded head of his."

The word "shroud" stopped her heart for a moment, but none about her seemed to notice. Surely he didn't know! The imp would not have her boy! He wouldn't! Quick and clever, she held a handkerchief over her face and made to dab the sweat away to conceal whatever visible emotions might've escaped the place where she locked away her innermost fears. High summer was here at last, so none ought to suspect.

The afternoon sun danced in the imp's mismatched eyes. How he loved to see her discomfitted. One day, she'd see him dead, but gods bless her if she had any idea how. As much as she hated him, Jaime, and, to her horror, Joffrey, were bewitched with the little monster's charms.

"Pycelle praises the boy often, I know," she said. An easy comment, and an obvious one. Naturally, her son would be clever.

"He's sharp, Cersei, almost like Father sometimes. There hasn't been a book I've lent him that he didn't understand perfectly. These are no nursemaid's tales of grumpkins and snarks, but histories written by learned maesters and septons. Why, just the other day, he told me why I was a dwarf."

"He told you what?" Cersei couldn't help but raise her voice.

"Yes, it shocked me as well. You see, his theory was that I'm a dwarf because Father and Mother were cousins. He likened it unto Targaryen madness. 'Incest causes problems like that, Uncle. If you doubt me, take up breeding horses or hunting hounds. If the mating pair is too closely related, all manner of problems will start to show up in the line.' Those were his exact words, Cersei. Can you imagine?"

"A boy's fanciful imagination," she dismissed the idea. Tyrion killed Mother, and he was a dwarf because he had an evil nature. That was all the explanation she required. Sometimes clever children settled upon ideas that only made sense to those without experience. In time, her clever son would recognize the imp for the monster he was, she didn't doubt.

"I'm not so sure," Tyrion said quietly.

Everyone around was listening intently, absolutely silent. She cursed herself for allowing Tyrion to drag her down to his level. A sudden, terrifying thought chilled Cersei's blood. If this got back to Father, he would be most wroth...

Thankfully, she didn't have to think too much more on it for trumpets sounded and the herald announced the melee would soon begin.

Robert was obvious enough, even at this distance. He stood high in his stirrups, and that absurd antlered helm broadcast his identity for all to see. This melee would start mounted, and consisted of thirty-odd participants arranged around a muddy field. Once the second trumpet blew, it would be every man for himself.

Hardly any knights of renown or lords from notable houses would take part. These were the dregs, freeriders, hedgeknights, second sons, and, of course, the king. Robert ever so loved debasing himself in such a manner.

"Haroo! Harroo!" went the trumpet. Men and horses galloped into action, hefting steel and churning the ground with iron-shod hooves.

Mud and blood and cries of pain followed. With one fatal swing of that evil lump of iron, Robert dashed some fool knight right out of the saddle not ten seconds after the trumpet blew. At first, men feared to strike him, but fear of the demon eventually won out over fear of the king. Three men surrounded her husband, and for half a moment, she dreamed they might overthrow him, but nay!

Laughing uproariously, Robert smashed one foe after another. None could stand against him. Did Robert murder poor Rhaegar like this?

He was to be my husband!

Robert took him away, just as he was trying to take away Joffrey. She wouldn't allow it! She couldn't!

It was, perhaps, too much to hope for that Robert might take a blow on the back of the head and die like poor Prince Baelor. Instead, he triumphed. The field narrowed quickly, and a knight from Jon Arryn's household yielded rather than face the hammer. He could clearly see what fate awaited him. Half the men Robert struck had yet to rise. Some might never rise. How the smallfolk and all the court cheered when their black-armored king proved to be the last man standing. She hated it.

When Joffrey ran out onto the torn-up tourney ground, and Robert picked him up and carried him on his shoulders, she hated all the more. Everyone cheered and laughed, from the imp to the swineherds, leaving only Cersei to hate.

Let them celebrate this petty triumph. Robert shall not have him, she swore.