Chapter 105: What Do You Mean by "Whispers at the Pillow"?
On the grand canopied bed that had once belonged to Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister lay nestled in Pod's arms. The silk sheets had slipped, revealing the curve of one pale shoulder, her fair skin flushed with a lingering warmth.
Her slender fingers idly twined a lock of golden hair, tracing slow circles over Pod's chest as though sketching invisible patterns.
Pod reclined against the headboard, eyes closed, holding the beauty in his arms. His left hand moved lazily, patting Cersei's smooth back in an absent rhythm, as if contemplating the weighty mysteries of the universe and life itself.
They stayed like that, wrapped around each other, savoring the fading afterglow—until the queen seemed to remember something.
"So the Grand Maester and that eunuch were involved as well?"
Her bright green eyes, rippling like spring water, fixed on him. She lifted her long, swan-like neck and breathed softly near his ear as she spoke.
Pod's hand stilled.
He opened his eyes halfway and looked down at her, meeting that shimmering gaze.
"They can't possibly be uninvolved. Even a goose flying across the sky leaves a trace—let alone schemes this filthy."
As he spoke, his hand shifted from patting to a gentle squeeze, the lush skin yielding with perfect elasticity.
"We have to admit, for a man Jon Arryn's age, he was considered quite robust. Yet not long after borrowing The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms from Grand Maester Malleon, he suddenly fell ill and began wasting away."
Pod gave a quiet scoff.
"Crude work. You could guess the truth with your big toe."
"He was poisoned. And plenty of people knew. They simply chose silence—and in that silence, they let it happen."
He stated the brutal fact with calm disdain.
As he spoke, he closed his eyes again, a faint smile still on his lips—seemingly unconcerned with whom he held in his arms while saying it.
But unfortunately, Cersei couldn't think that far.
The moment Pod mentioned the borrowed book, the Grand Maester, and poison, a nameless fury surged up inside her.
She thought of how, after Robert Baratheon's foster father died, he had ridden a thousand miles north to seek help from his "brother," Eddard Stark—yet had refused, no matter what, to grant the Handship to her father or Jaime. The distrust toward her and House Lannister had been plain.
Then came Jon Arryn's death. The whispers hidden in shadow.
And now—these accusations about Joffrey's identity and claim, and the war still burning across the realm.
"All because of this filth, that damned Stark kept suspecting me of killing Jon Arryn—hmph!"
The more she thought, the hotter her anger burned. Cersei shot upright from Pod's arms, silk sheets slipping from her body, exposing pale, radiant skin without a care.
"So it was those old bastards scheming behind the scenes! I should have had them hanged!"
Her teeth bit into her lower lip, eyes blazing. She looked ready to order the execution of half the small council on the spot.
Hearing her fury, Pod lifted one eyelid and leisurely took in the striking view before him.
Then he continued, unhurried.
"Someone told me Maester Coleman—Jon's own maester—believed he had a stomach illness and tried to purge the toxins."
"But just as he began improving, our Grand Maester decisively dismissed him… and Jon Arryn soon died beyond saving."
He gave a faint scoff.
"So even if that old turnip isn't the killer, he's at least an accomplice."
"As for how much the eunuch knew—or why he chose to look the other way—I can't say."
As he spoke, Pod opened both eyes and sat up from the headboard—then suddenly pulled the queen back into his arms.
He leaned close to her ear, breath hot against her skin.
"So, Your Grace… I suggest you deal with them the same way you're dealing with Littlefinger. Lock up everyone who shows you disrespect. Hang them if you like—one a day."
"That way, no more idle gossip will trouble your ears."
Forced to shoulder blame for crimes she hadn't committed, and watching everything spiral into this chaos—how could Cersei not be enraged?
Her fists clenched tight.
Yet Pod's arm hooked her back against him, his breath warm, his grip possessive—and a soft sound escaped her lips as her strength melted away.
He didn't stop. His hands roamed restlessly while his voice continued its soft persuasion.
"And this would silence those with ulterior motives. Stannis Baratheon humiliated you, smeared your honor—yet you answer with half-measures."
"You should strike back for real. Show the realm you will never tolerate such slander—and prove those accusations are nothing but lies!"
The devil's whisper slid into her ears, paired with wandering, burning hands. Cersei's thoughts dissolved into haze. She could only murmur broken responses.
"Yes… I should kill them…"
"Destroy those… culprits… If not for them, things wouldn't be like this…"
"Poisoning Jon Arryn—Robert suspected me… us Lannisters… or why else would he—ah—why else would he make that northern savage Hand?"
"That office should have been my father's… Who in the Seven Kingdoms has his ability? His experience?"
"Even Jaime could have made the realm prosper…"
"Then when that damned Robert died, Joffrey would have taken the throne naturally… With us guiding him, who would dare rebel?"
Cersei arched like a proud white swan, arms wrapped around Pod's head, murmuring secrets of plans once carefully laid.
Heat rolled between them, clouding her mind beyond reason.
Anger at those who had ruined everything mixed with breathless, broken sounds.
Her curses were cut short.
"Then, Your Grace… shall I avenge you?"
Pod looked down at the queen amid the rumpled velvet sheets, lips curling.
His voice, low and magnetic, continued its gentle corruption.