Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

27th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC

The Young Wolf, Lannisport

When he dreamt of the Oakheart army retreating, Robb was wroth. Even more so when the scouts confirmed it when he woke up, and his irritation spiked once more when he saw the siege of Lannisport abandoned with his own eyes at noon. He did not even stop to admire the enormous Casterly Rock looming nearby, casting a dark shadow over his army. 

All the enemy scouts on the way were caught by the clansmen like Liddle and Knot, who seemed to be at home in the hills–or sniffed out by Grey Wind, he was sure of it. The Westerlanders had been very helpful on the way even if the castellans, uncles, second and third sons of holdfasts and castles were content to cower behind their walls. Only Lady Lefford and three minor knightly houses, Yew, Ruttiger, and Hamell, had whomever could be spared ride out with everything they had to join him on the way. Alysanne Lefford had to actually be convinced not to ride out with them to war, and her cousin Ser Daven Lannister promised to lead the men in her stead.

The Lannister Knight had joined them from his Uncle Edmure's host, for he had accompanied the Rivermen in the war after his sister became the Lady of Riverrun. Yet, he was thirsty for vengeance–his father, Stafford, had been slain by the Reachmen near Crakehall. 

Unlike the craven noblemen, the smallfolk met the Northmen like heroes along the way–especially as they swept through Oakheart's riding parties.

Alas, things did not play out as expected when Robb arrived at Lannisport's walls. 

The siege was freshly abandoned–there were still dwindling embers, pots of food cooking on the campfires, and a small forest of tents abandoned before the walls of Lannisport, yet the defenders had not sallied out. Was this a stroke of luck and good use of scouts from Oakheart or something more insidious, like some traitor who had informed the Reachmen of their coming?

Robb would have all the men from the Westerlands watched regardless.

"Spineless cunts," Ser Daven Lannister scowled, looking at the city's defenders massed along the ramparts. "It must be grey Loren in charge of Lannisport, and old age has turned his courage into cowardice."

It was the sensible thing to do, for the city's defenders were greatly outnumbered, and if it were a ruse, sallying out would prove fatal. Robb said nothing, for his eyes had gotten weary of seeing all those nobles cowering behind walls. 

"They're half a day ahead of us, m'lord," one of his scouts, Emyck, reported. "The baggage train and all the loot were also left behind."

And here came his undoing. Traversing through the hilly and mountainous terrain of the Westerlands had his men tired, and he had arrived slower than he thought. And misfortune came in pairs–when he tried to chase, he lost control of his men because the thrice-damned John Oakheart had left everything behind on the road.

Cattle, supply baggage, carts, loot, and what looked like a small mountain of spoils. War seemed to be quite the profitable venture–Robb had never seen so much gold and silver in his life in one place, not even in Winterfell's treasury. 

If it was only one handful of men, he could have them flogged or beheaded for insubordination. But nearly half his men broke rank and their place in the marching column to take their share of the loot. 

And now, with his ranks collapsed and discipline broken because of all that wealth abandoned in the open, Robb could no longer pursue.

"A cunning man, this Oakheart," Ser Wendel Manderly, his riding companion for this day, sourly noted. Yet, the merman knight made no move to stop his men from participating in the chaotic looting of the spoils. 

Watching your plans collapse before your eyes was a sobering thing–the chaos had paralysed Robb's forces all the way into the night. The Reachmen could have circled and annihilated his force if they knew better. The thought caused his spine to tingle like thousands of ants were crawling over his skin. Worse, the current way of distributing spoils badly needed change if he wanted to keep a good level of discipline. A method that ensured a portion–preferably half was evenly distributed amongst the men.

It was easier said than done, however. The current tradition of looting and giving out plunder has hardly changed in the last centuries.

And now his forces were the ones burdened by all the loot. The cattle, food, gold, silver, gems, silks and rich fabrics were taken from his Westerlander allies, and returning a good part of it would make soliciting assistance easier, even if they technically had no claim to the wealth after losing it. Robb could already feel the headache of dealing with this problem - no lord liked giving away his hard-earned loot, let alone the common man-at-arms. 

This would delay him even further. 

"Lord Bolton, Lord Dustin, Lord Ryswell," Robb faced the three men that night. Dustin was a broad-shouldered man with bloodshed in his eyes, Roose Bolton still looked like a ghastly spectre, and Rickard Ryswell was prickly and gaunt. They weren't the most loyal or the finest tacticians, but their abilities to lead cavalry while keeping a good level of discipline were the best amongst his bannermen. "I want you three to take fifteen hundred men each and harass and delay Oakheart as much as possible without engaging in a direct battle. Sweep any of his traps and stragglers."

"I'll bleed them dry," Beron Dustin vowed solemnly.

"How far should we chase?" Bolton asked, the barest sliver of irritation betraying his emotions. He had wanted to seek a bride among the local nobility, but Robb's pace had denied him the time to enter such negotiations. And even more so with the current mission.

"Until Crakehall," Robb decided. "I have to clean up this mess first before joining you."

He had to figure out a new way of distributing spoils and plunder quickly–something that would keep his men reassured and disciplined. Then there was that pesky, mind-numbing amount of loot to deal with. Having carts and baggage trains meant that their ability to drag along plunder was very limited. Robb had even left half of the spoils he had won in the Riverlands to his uncle Edmure, while the other half was slowly trudging up the kingsroad to the North with an escort of two hundred men. But ferrying supplies from the Westerlands all the way to the North would be too risky and take too long.

Worse, the local lords also had to be rallied in some form, and Robb needed logistical support. But Tywin Lannister seemed to have taken everyone with daring and skill-at-arms to King's Landing, and those few left had perished with Stafford Lannister. 

Robb massaged his temples, trying to stave off the budding headache.

***

28th Day of the 4th Moon, 299 AC

Arianne Martell, Sunspear

"Father," Arianne greeted, entering the prince's solar. It was a sprawling, airy room smelling of blood oranges with windows looking towards the beach below. A pair of songbirds were sleeping in the gilded cage by the wall with the enormous Nymeros Martell tapestry. There were no servants here, and Areo Hotah was guarding the entrance, which meant her father did not want anyone to eavesdrop on them. "You called for me?"

"We're waiting for your brother," Doran motioned as he peeled off a blood orange from the bowl full of fresh fruits. Was he trying to take her rightful place as the next Princess of Dorne and put her brother in her stead? 

No, that couldn't be it–her father would have sent her away to pave the way for Quentyn in such a case.

She swallowed her irritation and sat down. Even her nose twitched at the fresh, sweet fragrance of citrus mingled with the soothing scent of Myrish incense wafting from the corner. After a minute, she had to fight off the drowsiness and poured herself a cup of strong red wine from the pitcher.

Her Uncle's death had forced Doran Martell to end his retreat in the Water Gardens and come to Sunspear to rule in person, especially as war had erupted in Westeros. However, he rarely showed his face in the court, spending most of his days in quiet contemplation in the library or the solar, refusing to receive visitors.

The war itself was a sour topic–on one side, you had Tywin Lannister, a man very hated in Dorne. Not only was her late aunt Elia well-loved by everyone, but most of her ladies-in-waiting had been from Dorne and had not survived the Sack of King's Landing either. House Martell's loss was Dorne's loss, and their want for vengeance was shared from the Red Mountains to the Broken Arm.

Yet on the other side, you had Renly, Lord of the Stormlands, allied with the Fat Rose of the Reach–Dorne's old enemies. Those were old feuds, not easily forgotten even after a century of peace after Dorne bent the knee. It was hard to forget grudges carved into the minds of men, women, and children with blood over millennia, and the dislike still lingered.

Of course, there were always warmongers amongst the lords–Dayne, Yronwood, Jordayne, and Uller were the most vocal, insisting on joining the war on one side or the other. Envoys from King's Landing and Highgarden had brought generous promises to sway her father to join on either side. For a second time, Arianne had been close to becoming the Lady of Highgarden, marrying the crippled Willas Tyrell.

In vain, of course–Doran Martell preferred to wait for his way through the war, and the alliance offer was gently rebuffed despite accepting Gregor Clegane's tarred head. Even that religious madness crept its way into Dorne. The Septons sent from each High Septon demanding support in denouncing the other side but found no fertile ground for their feud. Their northerly neighbours had always looked down upon the Dornish branch of the Faith. 

Yet Garin had told her of the Orphans of the Greenblood meeting secretly with septons and septas. Who knew what the faithful of Dorne were up to these days?

Her waiting ended as Quentyn skittishly entered the solar, giving her an uncertain smile as he took the orange chair to her left. Her brother was a plain, awkward young man who seemed uncomfortable in his skin–a virgin still. Short-legged and barely taller than her, Quentyn was said to look like their father in his youth with his square face.

"Word has come from Norvos–your mother is fine, and the war against Qohor ought not to reach the city," Doran explained, bringing them a measure of relief. It was expected in a way–Free Cities were not so easily sacked, and Norvos had not fallen even once since the Doom. Quentyn looked happy enough to leap. "But that's not what I called you here for."

"Father, are we finally joining the war?" Arianne asked impatiently.

"No," was the curt response.

Quentyn grimaced, "What about those brigands around the Vaith and the Greenblood? Merchants and trading barges are attacked in broad daylight, and even Lord Daeron Vaith has been slain when riding out to deal with them. Lady Allyrion also reached out to request aid from Sunspear."

"Smoke and mirrors," her father clasped his swollen hands. "Did you know Lord Anders Yronwood met with Allyrion, Blackmont, Manwoody, and Wyl secretly before these troubles began? Did you know that a new vulture king has appeared in the Marches, pillaging and burning, and Renly Baratheon is blaming us?"

"But-but why?" Her brother looked shaken; he thought of Lord Yronwood as an uncle and a second father. His closest friends were the younger Yronwoods, and such a betrayal must have stung deeply.

Arianne baulked, feeling her insides twist, "Are they planning treason?" 

"Neither is that daring," Doran smiled. "Yronwood is also wroth I declined his marriage offer for Quentyn. Now, they have just smelled blood and are prodding for weaknesses–nothing that could be traced against them, of course. Notice how many Dornish Houses have withdrawn from the Sunspear court?"

Her blood ran cold at the words. Now that her father had mentioned it, the court steadily dwindled by the day, and less than half remained of what was here a year prior–something she had initially attributed to autumn. 

"But why now?" Quentyn asked.

Of course, Doran Martell looked at them impassively as always without explaining things, with a sliver of disappointment dancing in his dark eyes. "Why do you think this is the case?"

"The war?" Arianne guessed sourly. "But the war has been going on for some time."

Doran Martell looked at them expectantly, but neither sibling spoke. With a sigh, he sipped from his glass of thick, strong wine–just the way her father liked it.

"Not only. My brother's absence is felt sorely now. If only he had not gone to chase tales and myths, but alas. He chased glory, valour, and renown and got them, leaving the rest of us behind. Did you know nearly three hundred Dornishmen, all knights or hot-blooded young warriors, sailed North hoping to slay a mythical Cold One? Merchants and sailors from the North had sung your uncle's praises to high heavens, with the septons here now calling him the Warrior's Hand." 

Arianne recalled seeing many young men in the Sunny Sept when she last visited and lighting a candle to the Warrior in her uncle's honour.

He shook his head, looking tired. "I know many of you considered Oberyn a whimsical rogue, but he was far more than that. My brother was the one to lead Dorne's banners, and now that I am old and sick, the next one would be Quentyn."

Arianne looked at her brother, who shrank in his chair as if he wanted to disappear.

"But I'm not a particularly good warrior or commander," his voice shook as he hid his face in his palms. "I've never killed a man!"

Doran tilted his head, "And Dorne knows." The words were uttered placidly, but the condemnation rang like a warhorn, shaking up her brother even more. "How many times do I have to tell you that there are eyes, ears, and daggers aimed at our House?"

"So what now?" Arianne challenged. "We must do something, Father, or we'll just look weak!"

Her father scoffed, taking down another gulp of wine. The look he levelled at her said it all: we are weak.

"Of course, your brother, you shall ride up the Greenblood with two hundred riders and learn from Areo Hotah and make a name for himself-"

"What if they ambush Quent?" She interrupted. "This could be a trap!"

"Patience, daughter mine," Doran sighed. "It is something you must learn sooner rather than later. And, if you had not interrupted so hastily, you would have heard in half a minute. Two groups of a hundred outriders will trail in Quentyn's wake, ensuring he's safe, and House Martell's finest scouts will screen the way. Areo Hotah has fought far worse skirmishes against the Qohorik and the Dothraki."

Her brother grimaced, "But… I'm not sure I'm ready, Father."

"You cannot avoid life forever, my son. Strength, skill, and wisdom are born from adversity. Stagnation leads to decay, as I have found out for myself," Doran motioned to his swollen joints and misshapen-looking blanket covering his knees. "Regardless, we have far bigger problems with Lys and their campaign to take control of the Stepstones."

"Why worry? Myr and Tyrosh would never let the Lyseni succeed," Arianne pointed out. "The three daughters get along like water and oil, and the only time they ever united was against the Rogue Prince and the Sea Snake."

Predictably, the obvious argument did not move her father.

"But the whole naval might of Tyrosh is embroiled in a war against Joffrey, a good chunk of it lost to Shireen Baratheon," his voice thickened with disdain, and she couldn't tell if it was aimed at Joffrey, Stannis' daughter, or the Tyroshi. "The Myrish slave revolt has yet to be suppressed. Probably because the Lyseni Council keep pouring gold and sellswords into the rebels who show surprisingly competent leadership. The city streets run red with blood as thousands of slaves are killed each day, and the Grand Conclave of Myr has lost control of over a third of the city's hinterland."

Arianne paled, and Quentyn's shoulders slumped.

"And with the Volantine fleet burned by the corsairs from the Basilisk Isles, only Braavos has the strength to oppose Lys in the Stepstones," he whispered.

"Which is something they won't do because everyone would turn against them," Arianne sighed.

"The Stepstones are too far for Braavos to control. There is word from Pentos that a formidable army with direwolf banners had forced the city to shut its gates down for a week, so there's a good chance that Eddard Stark has survived."

"What can one man even do?" Quentyn asked. "Tywin Lannister is under siege in King's Landing, and any armies take moons to muster and even more to move."

"Eddard Stark is not someone to be underestimated," Doran's voice turned grave. "They think him an honourable fool, but can such a fool almost completely flip the board in less than a year? The Old Falcon was an experienced lord and Hand, yet he didn't make a tenth of the waves in two decades that his foster son did in half a year."

"House Stark are no friends of ours," Arianne pointed out coldly.

"Nor is anyone else." Her father's face hardened. "House Nymeros Martell has no friends but subjects, allies, and foes. Regardless, Lys has a sizeable chance of taking control after purging the petty pirate lords out of the Stepstones. And three-quarters of House Martell's trade will be at the mercy of the Lyseni." 

"But we have no fleet, Father," Quentyn despaired. "There isn't much we can do."

"Indeed." their father agreed after a short pause. "Ever since Nymeria burned her ten thousand ships, our House has yet to build a proper fleet, but we are not defenceless from the sea. Seventeen warships and thrice as many trade cogs can be mustered amidst our principal bannermen."

It was still a meagre amount compared to the naval might of Lys, the enormous island city-state, which meant something else was at play here. Doran Martell never did anything without thinking it through thrice. Arianne gasped as the realisation slowly sank.

"You mean to aid the pirates?"

"Of course. Our ships will dip the banners and discard all heraldry. Dornish spears would flood the Stepstones." With a pained cough, her father unfurled the map of the lower Narrow Sea over the mahogany desk. "It's been over a century since House Martell had an agreement with the petty pirate lords of Dustspear and the Veiled Isle. In fact, Teora the Red is a Sand from Dorne, the wife of Blackhook Syren, who took his place after he perished."

***

By the evening, Arianne's mood had turned even more sour.

Her father's unusual wordiness ended, and no other plots or secrets left his lips. Once again, the topic of her and Quentyn's marriages was avoided, and while she had little love for her brother, he was still her blood. Throwing him into the sands to hunt bandits seemed rather cruel.

She knew the aim: turn Quentyn into her right hand, someone she could rely on as Doran had relied on the Red Viper. Yet the reality was cruel, for her brother was neither a viper nor a warrior–Prince Frog, they called him, and Arianne couldn't help but agree. At least some of her doubts that she would be discarded as an heir were alleviated for all the good it did.

Yet Dorne seemingly continued to stay neutral about the war of the Iron Throne. Her aunt's murder remained unavenged, and it would remain so for the foreseeable future. House Martell's influence over the Iron Throne after the war concluded would dwindle even further if nothing were done.

Worse, their bannermen seemed to have smelled weakness and circled like vultures. And what did their father do? Sit idly in Sunspear and start a war with the Lyseni, of all things!

"You look quite irked," Nymeria's voice greeted her in the hallway. She was garbed in a far less revealing gown than usual, not showing even an ounce of sensuality. The loose, flowing dress of layered purple cotton was designed to hide the swell in her belly and did so rather well. 

"Because I am," Arianne exhaled slowly, pushing aside her usual woes. It wasn't anything the Sand Snakes could help her with, though Nymeria had always been special with two highborn parents, one of the Old Blood of Volantis. Many called her Lady Nym, but Arianne and her sisters called her simply Nym. "How's the babe doing?"

"I can feel it kick now," she muttered with wonder. "It's a spirited one."

"I still don't get why you insist on hiding your pregnancy or refuse to tell who the father is." Her cousin refused to name her lover, and Obara and Ellaria remained conspicuously silent. "Who stole your heart, Nym? Was it some lauded honourable lord lusting after the Dornish beauty? A famed warrior of low birth, or perhaps a skilled man-at-arms or a dashing sellsword?"

It was quite a surprise when Arianne found out her cousin was pregnant shortly after Ellaria, Obara, and Nymeria returned from the North with her Uncle's bones. Even more so because Nymeria usually preferred the company of women, but her usual lovers, the Fowler twins, had been spurned since her return.

"I will not say," Nym said stubbornly.

"Why, is it some lord who would refuse to take responsibility and acknowledge a baseborn child?" Arianne tilted her head. "Or did you perhaps wed in secret without inviting me?"

"Neither. It's not as sordid as you think-"

"Well, you have no incomes of your own save what little you inherited from Uncle Oberyn." It was meagre. The Red Viper had left all his personal belongings and estate to his daughters, but they were little–as a second son, he had no lands, only owning a winery and two tanneries bought on a whim, and their incomes were split into eight. 

She tugged on her hair and continued, "All baseborn children must rely on their father's generosity to prosper, and yours will be no different. Or is it perhaps a sordid affair with some poor, penniless bard? It couldn't be a Black Brother!"

"Enough," Nymeria hissed, looking like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "I already decided not to tell. No amount of queries will change my mind."

"This is so unlike you, Nym," Arianne bemoaned, but her suspicions were confirmed–it had to be a Black Brother, but that meant little nowadays. There were thousands of men at the Wall now, from each corner of the Seven Kingdoms, from lowly tillers to Highlords. "You know better than this. Why not take Moon Tea?"

"There was no tansy in the northern snows. By the time I could procure it, I had already quickened, and it was too dangerous to get rid of the babe," her cousin said, looking slightly mollified. "Besides, I decided to keep the child and raise it. I do want to be a mother."

The talk made Arianne feel even more restless. Sunspear felt like one enormous trap hewn out of sandstone. War to the east and the north, bandits to the west, and her future was still shrouded in mystery. 

Her father had some plan, but only the gods knew what it was. Doran Martell was the kind of man who would wait and wait until things aligned, no matter how long it took. Or perhaps she was wrong, and he truly planned to wed her to some old, dying man.

Her frustration only mounted further, and that same evening, Arianne Martell found herself again in the embrace of her old lover Gerold Dayne, the handsome Darkstar.

***

5th Day of the 5th Moon, 299AC

Cersei Lannister, King's Landing

Jaime had died, leaving her all alone. Cersei had refused to believe at first, not without seeing her brother's body. They called him the Kingslayer, but he was the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. How could he die to some nobody Tarth woman from the Stormlands? 

Yet no matter how many mornings she woke up expecting to see her brother come in with his dashing smile, he never appeared. Her Uncle Kevan, Septas Unella and Helicent, the skittish serving girls, and Ser Mandon Moore before he perished–they had all said the same. Dawn after dawn, the realisation sank in, and her disbelief was whittled away.

And so, day after day, Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Dowager, was stuck in the Maidenvault alone. Or worse, with two Septas for company–the old crones loved tormenting her with sermons and prayers. The more interesting things to do were sewing roughspun robes and coarse linen gowns for propriety's sake—crude mourning garb she was forced to wear. 

Cersei hadn't clawed their eyes out only because it would probably lengthen her stay inside the damned prison. But she would not forget–and the scowling Unella and hard-face Helicent would get their due once she got out.

But Cersei couldn't get out of the damned prison, no matter how hard she tried.

"It's for your own safety," Uncle Kevan had claimed after the riot that had almost murdered her precious boy. "The Maidenvault is one of the best-defended buildings in this city."

It was all a load of horseshite, of course. They wouldn't even let Cersei see her son–and Joffrey wouldn't visit for some reason! Unella said something about the king cavorting with heathens and whores, but her boy would never.

To her fury, her stay in the Maidenvault had extended more than the supposed seven moons and seven days. Mourning for her brother, however, was something she could do without faking.

The only solace was the word of the war, which had gotten slightly less grim, even if the city was under siege. Word filtered of a child, a newborn Stark, Myrcella's son, her grandson. 

It was a queer thing, and Cersei didn't know what to think. Would the child look all lion, all wolf, or some mix of both, like a little mongrel? The Stark boy looked half-decent for a husband, but the Northmen were just so… savage and backwards, clinging to pointless old traditions. The fools did not even have a headsman. Alas, her daughter had seemed enamoured with her husband and had not responded to Cersei's letters or advice. 

Worse, she was going to be a grandmother a second time over–Myrielle was, in fact, also pregnant. Did her meek little cousin get a hold of the court without Cersei's guiding hand? What had happened with her household and servants?

The Septas did not know–as befitting of damned prudes who had sworn off men and held no inkling about worldly matters.

Worse, there was dull shaking, rumbling far in the distance that she could hear from beyond her shutter. It was constant, day and night, at uneven intervals. It was the sound of trebuchets hurling rocks at the city.

The mundane tedium mingling with worry was mind-numbing, and even the food was bland and tasteless–serving her plain porridge and peasant soups. 

That's why Cersei was so glad when she saw her father show up. His face looked like a piece of granite, completely unreadable, and the Lord of Casterly Rock was clad in his enamelled crimson armour inlaid in gold. It was the first time Cersei had seen him since she had been exiled to the damned prison.

"Father," she gave her best curtsy and gave her most submissive smile, "I am gladdened to see you alive and well."

"You must be wondering why I forbade you from leaving," he said, his voice bereft of emotions.

"Indeed."

Tywin pulled over one of the varnished chairs and seated himself.

"We are on the back foot of the war, Cersei, if you have not figured it out yet," his words were laden with disdain. "All because of your imbecilic vanity and pride. House Lannister could hardly afford such brutal mistakes again."

"All I did was just-"

"Spare me the nonsense. House Tyrell wanted a queen, and their influence in court could be curbed one way or another. You had already held control of the city for over fifteen years when they had yet to make a foothold. Robert never allowed them to; what chance would they stand against the might of House Lannister, Stark, Tully, and Arryn?"

She had no answer, earning herself a scoff. "You've made the matter worse than it could have been in your foolish desire to avoid giving the Tyrells influence. They're here to take it at the tip of a sword."

"Surely they can't take the city?" Cersei wrung her hands nervously. "You have over thirty thousand swords here, the whole might of the Westerlands, and Tully and the Stark boy ought to be on their way."

"One might think so, but Robb Stark has decided otherwise. He has broken the siege at Lannisport, and Oakheart has retreated in good order with little losses."

She scoffed. "Since when have you suffered such insubordination? Summon the boy to come here and fight!"

"I do not command House Stark," Tywin reminded. "Your wayward son does, and he seems very happy with his good brother who keeps sending tarred heads of treacherous lords as gifts. It is of no matter, for Renly has fortified his camp, digging trenches and traps should the Young Wolf strike him in the rear. Even in the Westerlands, Robb Stark has raised the morale of my troops, and a new crop of levies can be trained and drafted, just like in the Riverlands."

"Wouldn't this only prolong the war?"

"Succession wars are a long and bloody affair, daughter mine." Her father glanced away from her as if he couldn't bear to look at her. "The chance to nip it in the bud was lost when you allowed Renly to flee King's Landing after Robert died, and you wasted Joffrey's hand. Varys says the Ironborn started negotiating with House Tyrell and that the Redwyne Fleet has begun to move, and Mace Tyrell has started arming and training all those vagrants at his gates so he won't lack for numbers. With Tyrosh in tow, our enemies only grow more numerous." 

He stood up then, giving her one final glance filled with disappointment. "Your period of mourning is now over, Cersei. You can leave the Maidenvault, but try not to make a bigger mess of it. The last thing we need is your ability to make problems where there were none. Stannis' daughter ought to arrive in the following days, so get yourself presentable. If I had two daughters as bold, cunning, and competent as the eleven-year-old Shireen Baratheon, I would have nothing to worry about."

And with that, her father walked out the plain door, leaving a seething Cersei heaving with fury.

He dared to insult her to her face?! Comparing her to that stone-faced ugly little thing. Was it somehow her fault that Stannis raised his daughter like some savage barbarian?

Was it somehow her fault that Renly was a treacherous sword-swallower or that the grasping roses reached far above their station?

Was she only being released to greet that scarred little girl?

It took her half an hour to swallow her anger and leave the Maidenvault with her plain, uncomfortable, roughspun robes that chaffed her skin. Unlike before, nobody thwarted her attempt. Even the red cloaks at the entrance nodded as she walked out instead of halting her way.

The air outside was crispier and far fresher than she remembered, probably because her Uncle had kicked out all those unwashed street rats. There was even a feast and celebration for Robb Stark's meagre victory in the Westerlands.

Yet the embers of rage were quickly stoked when she found out all of her servants and handmaids had already been dismissed by Myrielle. Her little scheming cousin had taken up her royal apartments in Maegor's Holdfast!

The Red Keep was filled with unfamiliar faces, from the courtiers to the guardsmen and the scullery maids. She no longer had a white cloak to accompany her–and the demand for one was curtly rejected, "Kingsguards are in short supply nowadays. Even the Queen does not have one."

The Queen–not her. The reminder that Cersei was only a dowager and her power had melted away stabbed her in the heart.

…Until another comes, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.

Maggy the Frog's words echoed in her mind, making her blood run cold. Cersei had dismissed the prophecy as some mad rambling when her brothers perished, but now this part happened.

Did this mean her children would all die before her now?

But while younger, Myrielle was not half the beauty Cersei was, and confusion clouded her mind further.

"Are you Her Grace's new lady-in-waiting?" One of the damned chits had the temerity to ask to her face, and Cersei had ordered the thing flogged for the disrespect.

But nobody moved to obey her orders, as if she was a no-name guest, and the damned roughspun robes made her look like some lowborn servant or a Septa. 

…Only the damned Northmen recognised and greeted her with a measure of respect–not because she was the King's mother, but because she was the grandmother of the future Lord Stark. The old Hother "Whoresebane" Umber had hunted down the serving girl to cane her in person. 

The indignities did not end there. There was also an actual Valyrian whore in one of the towers–Joffrey's mistress. She strutted around as if she owned the place, but Cersei noticed the bitch sensibly avoided being in her father's vicinity.

She had to regain her influence and take control of the ladies in court for good, lest they corrupt her precious son.

But how?

Her power had been curbed–a combined effort by Myrielle, her father, and her Uncle Kevan, who had corrupted her son. Joffrey refused to see her when she suffered the indignity of hearing him with his harlot. All of the proper ways for a lady or a queen to hold any power were denied to her.

The answer came to her later in the night when she saw a gold cloak, over seven feet tall, built like a giant and muscled like a bull, with his arms the size of tree trunks. Lacking any distinctive heraldry and clad in a fitted half-plate meant he was either a captain or a vice-captain–a high position to reach for someone lowborn. 

He had a young, boyish face full of rugged charm, and his blue eyes held a hint of youthful naivete and idealism. It almost reminded Cersei of a kinder, bigger version of her damned oaf of a husband, which made the whole thing even sweeter.

Surely nobody would begrudge a grieving widow some comfort? Even a king's mother like her had needs. While frowned upon, such an affair would be accepted–if they even got caught. But with no eyes on her person, sneaking around became so much easier, so chances of such a thing happening were meagre.

So Cersei pulled him into one of the empty hallways, and the foolish boy felt as malleable as clay under her deft hands.