There was Ser Pounce, Lady Whiskers, Boots. Yet they kept their distance, sleeping on the corners. Tommen looked fitful, face furrowed and strained with worry, skin slick with sweat. He is having one of his dreams, Cersei realised.
...
Those same dreams that had so stymied her, ended her hour in the sun before it could truly begin. A surge of resentment rose through her gut. I could strangle him now, she thought, and all his dreams would be for naught. All notions of the Others would die with him.
Yet she did not move to wake him, simply observing for a long second. Her old love for her son was gone. He was no more her sweet little boy. He had not been since that accursed day when her eldest, her dearest, had been so cruelly murdered. Yet even Cersei had to admit the age looked becoming on his visage, much as she loathed what it had done to his character. His face reminded her of Jaime in his youth, yet untroubled by death and disfigurement, unburdened by the weight of the white cloak.
Tommen was about that age. That age when she and Jaime had shared their first kisses, their first embrace. He was older, even. His face reminded her of the days of Jaime's dogged pursuit, when he would accost her seemingly at random and press her against a wall in some distant corner of Casterly Rock and push and push till she had no choice to but to pretend to break, to pull him into her, hinting but never truly revealing that that was what she had wanted all along.
I fucked my brother, Cersei thought in a moment of impetuousness, why shouldn't I fuck my son? Is one truly any worse than the other? For all his dreams told him, it seemed likely that he would nevertheless be caught entirely unawares by such a move, left completely at her mercy. It would doubtless be pleasurable for her too, at least going by all the stories the Maid Margaery had made sure to spread around of her new husband's prowess. Yet though Jaime had made mock of himself for her many times, something told Cersei that Tommen would not be so pliable. It was better to be patient, play the doting mother, the concerned counsellor. To worm her way back into his close confidences. And if in time a opening presented itself she could act, but not a moment sooner.
Gods, Cersei cried to herself, half in lament, when did I become such a coward? The old her would have gone to any lengths. Even Joffrey, strong-willed as he was, caved to her more oft than not. That Cersei would have grasped Tommen by the cock as she had done to Lancel and offered no apologies for doing so. Her charms most certainly would have eclipsed anything his little wife was capable of. The most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms is seldom spurned, she thought. She leaned over him, hesitant as her eyes flicked again over his features, half tempted to grab his face and press her lips to his, but again fear and doubt prevailed. She sighed, lowered herself to the edge of the bed, kissing his forehead as she gently jostled his shoulder.
Tommen started awake, eyes opening with a jerk, a moment of violent resistance to her touch, and then calm when he realised who it was holding him. "Mother?" a groggy voiced asked.
"You were having a nightmare," she explained, cradling his head.
"As I do most nights," Tommen said. "Yet I am not often awoken. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, sweetling," Cersei said, affecting her most compassionate tone. "I just wanted to see you, and I couldn't stand to see you suffer."
Tommen's face looked confused, half-torn between sympathy and suspicion. "That is kind of you," he said. "Yet suffer I must. I don't mind it much. The horrors I see are often distant, unlikely things. And to be forewarned is to be forearmed."
"Yet still I mislike it," Cersei complained. "Perhaps you could lighten your load? Tell someone what you see in greater detail?"
"Like you?" Tommen asked, with a glint in his eyes.
Cersei cynically shook her head. "Like anyone that you can trust. Like that Lyra girl. Or like your grandfather."
Tommen winced. "Best not Lyra," he said. Good, thought Cersei. "With Uncle Jaime gone, you are the only one who knows. I would sooner keep it that way."
"Then why not me?" Cersei pressed.
Tommen seemed hesitant. "I... I want to," he finally said. "But after all I have seen, how can I trust you? You, with all your plots and pettiness? You forget I have seen the ugliest sides of you, mother."
Cersei felt hatred and heartbreak make war in her chest. "I... I will be better," she said, forcing herself, the words emerging bitter on her tongue.
"You might well mean that," Tommen said, "but deep down I know you still want your hour in the sun."
"I do," Cersei confessed. "Yet sunlight can be shared. Is Queen Alysanne not still revered? Are not Visenya and Rhaenys? Yet still, Jaehaerys and Aegon ruled as great kings all the same, and are remembered as such. Sharing your light would not diminish it, sweetling."
Tommen smirked. "The power behind the throne, eh?"
"Would that be so bad?" Cersei asked. "To allow me to be known as the woman standing beside you, in that place, who helped you to your pride and glory?"
"No, it would not be bad at all," Tommen conceded, smirk growing to a grin. "So long as you could bear to share that place with Margaery."
...
( Jon POV )
In the granary were oats, wheat, barley, and barrels of coarse ground flower. In the root cellars lengths of onions and garlic and turnips and radishes dangled on strings from the rafters. Bags of carrots and spuds and barrels of corn lined the walls.
On the shelves were large slabs of salted beef, mutton, pork and wheels of cheese so massive they took two men to carry from place to place. There were casks of pickled apples and pears and cabbage and all other sorts of sundry still immersed in brine. Nuts and spices aplenty. Huge jars of olive oil. Smoked salmon, venison, and other sorts of wild game.
As they moved from one tunnel to another, the sheer extent of the wealth stashed away became apparent.
"The king's bounty is indeed generous, my lord," Bowen Marsh announced. "It's not much at the moment, but with Stannis's men no longer being such a drain on our supplies, what little empty room remains should quickly be filled up. Plenty to see the Watch through winter."
"And the wildlings?" Jon asked.
Bowen Marsh suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "My lord... There are a thousand mouths to feed in Mole Town alone. And there are more besides. It was a long summer, my lord, and I have no reason to expect winter will be short.
These rooms may seem stuffed with food today, but you would be surprised how quickly they can be emptied if we aren't careful with the rations. Settling the wildlings on the Gift may be well and good, but it is too late this far north to plant crops. They'll stay dependent on us all through winter, and who knows how long that will be? Or whether His Grace's generosity will last that long?"
"Worst comes to worst we could always hunt. There's still game in the woods."
"Game, aye, but also darker things," Bowen retorted. "I would not send out hunters where they could be taken down. Even as our ranks swell, it takes time to train skilled men. We can scarcely afford such risks."
No, Jon agreed. Yet you would have us close our gates forever and seal them up with stone and ice. Half of Castle Black concurred with Bowen's view, Jon knew. Mercifully, the other half seemed to see sense in keeping the gateways open. Elsewise Jon's job would have become a great deal more difficult.
"Then we best hope His Grace's generosity is not exhausted," Jon said, feeling bitter even as the words came out. Here he was, calling the Boy King on the Iron Throne His Grace. Yet what else was he to do, when Arya was down in the capital in the Boy King's custody, and all the hopes of the Watch rested on the continued flow of Tommen's ships? "No matter what, the wildlings must be fed, and so must the remnants of Stannis's men. We still lack the swords to fight them."
Bowen seemed worried. "My lord..."
"Enough," Jon said as he turned stiffly on his heel and made to leave.
"It'll be dangerous," Bowen warned. "We already have men coming from down south. We don't need the extra numbers."
Jon ignored him. He'd heard all Bowen's objections before. "Have the wagons been prepared?" he asked as he ascended the steps.
"Aye," Bowen answered tiredly. "Corn, flour, pickled fruits and all the rest."
...
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