[81] The Game of Queens

Chapter 81: The Game of Queens

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The bathhouse steam clung to my skin like a second cloak, water rippling around my chest as I leaned back against the heated marble. A warm bath to start the morning after last night's incidents was just what I needed.

Cersei’s hands trembled beneath the surface, while her golden hair plastered to flushed cheeks as she worked between my thighs. Her warm mouth was just a plus to my pleasure. Only a King could enjoy this, and I was relishing it.

I watched the way her throat bobbed with each forced movement, the chain around her neck glinting in the firelight.

"Careful of your teeth," I said, flicking water at her face. She flinched, the hate in her eyes smothered beneath layers of practiced submission. "Not that it hurts, but it's annoying you're trying to make it less pleasurable."

"…I apologize." Her lips were tight, but she obeyed with a nod. The hot spring’s currents lapped at my shoulders as I closed my eyes—

Boots slapped against wet stone.

I didn’t bother opening my eyes. "Hopefully not another servant with scented oils," I muttered under my breath, honestly finding this bothersome. As a modern man who knew the peace of solidarity, this was getting out of hand.

"Y-your Grace, I- ah…." The guard’s voice cracked when he reached nearby, and my eyes opened. This one seemed important.

Cersei froze, her breath hitching against my thigh. I opened my eyes to see a green boy in Tyrell's red standing, pausing mid-sentence and gaping at the sight of the former queen on her knees.

I flicked a hand. Water splashed the boy’s boots. "Eyes up here. What is it?"

He jerked his gaze to the ceiling, face burning. "Apologies, Your Grace! B-but this is important. Lady Olenna Tyrell has been assassinated! And the killer left a dagger with Lannister lion marking its hilt. They’re saying Lord Tywin—"

I stood, water sluicing off my body. Cersei scrambled back, chain clanking, her wet shift clinging to every curve. The guard’s eyes darted toward her once again before snapping back at me.

"And is that news truly big enough for you to come running unannounced? Be sure to resign by sunset," I said, stepping out of the pool. "This is kindness."

"Ah… I- thank you?" The boy stammered and then fled.

Gods, who was hiring these soldiers? I have to put better people in charge.

In the meantime, Cersei stared at the rippling water, fingers digging into her thighs. "Father… he wouldn’t. Not now. Not when—"

"What are you on about, slave? Your father’s as subtle as a Dothraki wedding." I snatched a robe from the rack, silk sticking to damp skin. "Stop muttering like a madwoman and return to your chambers."

She didn’t move. Her head slowly rose up to meet my eyes. "The way you're so unsurprised… You know this reeks of—"

The chain yanked tight in my fist, choking her gasp. "What it reeks of," I said, leaning close enough to taste her fear, "is your family’s stupidity. And only that. Don't play smart, that is not your role. Run along, you toothless lioness for I’ve got a realm to console."

I released her, watching her hold back a glare as she looked down at the floor. I moved toward the exit as the door slammed behind me.

****

Evening light sliced through the high windows of the throne room, catching motes of ash still lingering from Olenna's pyre. It wasn’t a proper pyre, her body wasn’t burnt, since House Tyrell buried the bodies of their dead members, but Kinvara had to do a show even without the body.

The Red Priestess was still out there, praying, guiding the soul of the dead.

The Iron Throne loomed like a beast of jagged steel and forgotten wars as I settled into its cruel embrace. The Tyrell delegation stood clustered below—Mace’s bulbous frame draped in mourning green, Loras rigid as a statue carved from grief. Reachlords fanned out behind them in a sea of golden roses, while the northerners lurked at the edges like wolves eyeing a wounded stag.

I let the silence stretch, sharpening the weight of every gaze. “House Tyrell has lost more than an elder today,” I began, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the throne’s obsidian blades. “You’ve lost its sharpest thorn. A woman who could wither an empire with a quip and raise a kingdom with a sigh. My court feels poorer for her absence.”

Mace sniffled, a handkerchief dabbing at dry eyes. “Your words honor her, Your Grace. Mother always said you had a dragon’s fire but a gardener’s eye for… for growth.” His voice broke on the last word, and I could sense true pain there. Being a trash, greedy noble didn’t mean he wasn’t sad at his mother’s passing.

A hush settled over the throne room as he tried to compose himself. The flicker of torches caught the damp trails on his cheeks. A few of the Reach lords lowered their heads, sympathy on their faces.

I watched him calmly, fingers drumming the arm of the Iron Throne. “Lady Olenna had a tongue sharper than Valyrian steel,” I said, voice quieter than before. “She never failed to speak her mind, even if it sliced through armor. The realm will miss that honesty, even if we have no shortage of cunning tongues.”

Mace swallowed thickly. “She was the backbone of House Tyrell. The reason we soared so high.” His shoulders shook once, and he closed his eyes like he was trying to keep himself together. “I—I can’t believe she’s gone.”

Somewhere off to the side, a woman in green-laced mourning clothes let out a choked sob, muffled by her sleeve. Only a second later did I realize it was Margeary. She was a mess, and it wasn’t an act. The sadness in the room swallowed everyone, making the air feel thin.

I tapped the seat’s twisted steel again, letting the man gather himself. “Grief weighs heavy, I know. She was a formidable force. The Lannisters pay for this. I would have flown to Casterly Rock right now and burned it to the ground if I wasn’t unsure about Tywin Lannister’s location.”

With a shaky breath, Mace drew himself up and glanced at the silent crowd of Reachmen behind him. A few gave him tight nods. “But we carry on,” he mumbled, wringing the handkerchief in his hands. “For her sake, for House Tyrell’s sake…”

Loras stepped forward, the candlelight catching the tear tracks he hadn’t bothered to hide. “Grandmother believed in your vision. Wanted Margaery to…” He faltered, jaw clenching.

“To see the Reach flourish under just rule,” I finished for him, leaning forward. “And it will. Lady Olenna’s legacy isn’t her wise schemes—it’s the strength she planted in your house. Her roots run too deep for one assassin’s blade to poison.”

Mace crumpled the handkerchief in his fist. “We are grateful, Your Grace. Truly. But without her guidance…” He shook his head, jowls quivering. “Who will tend to Margaery’s future now? My sweet girl… She’s adrift.”

The northerners exchanged glances. A few Reachlords coughed into their sleeves. There was the greedy man again—somehow bringing politics even while crying about his dead mother. I schooled my face into something resembling sympathy. “Lady Margaery is a rose with her own thorns. She needs no tending—only room to bloom.”

Mace seized the opening like a starving hound. “Yet even roses need strong walls to shelter them from storms.” He dabbed his cheeks again, theatrical. “Mother’s last wish… She wanted to hold Margaery’s children. Her great-grandbabes.” A wet chuckle. “Silly, sentimental thing.”

The throne room held its breath as people exchanged glances, curious what answer I’d give. “Not so silly,” I said, voice softening. “Olenna and I already spoke of such things. Promise is something a King must live by.”

Mace’s head jerked up, hope blazing through the façade of grief. “Your Grace?”

I rose, steel scraping stone as I descended the throne steps. “For everyone here who’s not aware, I’ve promised Lady Olenna that I’d wed Margaery and give her children.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Loras’ eyes darted to his father. Mace clasped his hands to his chest. “I—I didn’t mean to burden you with that topic, Your Grace, not today of all days—”

“A king’s word isn’t a burden.” I halted before him, close enough to smell the rosewater clinging to his doublet. “It’s a vow.”

The Tyrell lord’s smile split his face, tremulous and triumphant. Behind him, Reachlords bowed like wheat in a gale while northerners muttered into their beards. My eyes locked onto Catelyn Stark, her Tully-blue glare sharp enough to pierce castle walls. She stood rigid beside Robb, her knuckles white around the fabric of her mourning gown.

She must be furious right now, seeing me talk about marriage with Margaery when I promised her that I’d take Sansa instead. It was fun to see her fume, but I had to speak.

The court’s murmurs died under my gaze. “However,” I said, letting the word hang like a headsman’s axe, “there’s some… complicacy.” I flicked a finger. “Lord Stark, and Lady Catelyn. Please join us.”

Robb moved first, his boots echoing like war drums. Catelyn followed, spine straight as Valyrian steel. The crowd parted, Reach roses and northern wolves eyeing each other like rival packs. I didn’t call for Sansa and Margaery; they remained among their people, looking at their parents with their expressions full of confusion.

Mace Tyrell’s jowls quivered as they halted beside him. “Your Grace, what is—”

“Apologies first,” I cut in, raising a hand. The lie came smooth as silk. “Being a man is a complicated thing. You can love someone”—my gaze drifted to Sansa, and her cheeks went crimson at the words—“while having promises to fulfill. Lady Margaery is a fine woman, but I also enjoy Sansa Stark’s company greatly.”

The hall erupted.

“—two women?—”

“—mad as his father—”

“—Aegon’s precedent—”

Some muttered, and while I could have them executed right then, I ignored them. They’d muttered low enough that I’d not have heard it if not for my heightened senses. I watched Margaery’s smile freeze, her fingers tightening around her brother Garlan’s arm. Sansa pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide as a startled doe.

I waited, savoring the chaos, until the noise crested. “My ancestor Aegon had two wives. He conquered the seven kingdoms. I did the same. He did so with multiple dragons, and I did it with a single one. Why shouldn’t I have multiple wives? Who, if not me? It’s not as if that is not a common thing for Kings. Heck, even you lords do it all the time. Just this once, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear your whispers.”

The crowd swallowed while Mace lurched forward, spittle flying. “Even so…! You promised my mother!”

The throne room chilled. I let the silence stretch, watching his courage shrivel. “And I’m keeping my promise. I never promised that Margeary will be my only wife,” I said softly. “Do keep in mind, this is an offer, Lord Tyrell. You’re free to refuse if you find this rightfully outrageous. As is House Stark.”

A gamble, but I knew their greed.

If those words had been spoken to a pair of girls from the 21st century, they'd have slapped me and stormed off in anger. But between two great noble houses? Should one family withdraw, the other would claim victory. And if both refused, I, the King, could simply seek a bride from another noble line. Such a prestigious and beneficial union would never be refused over anger.

Thus... silence reigned. I observed, patient, until eventually Robb exhaled in resignation. His jaw was clenched. “I understand your feelings toward my sister, and I appreciate that you like her. I truly do. But if you can’t give up another for her, I don’t think my sister would ever—”

“I’m fine with it!” Sansa’s voice rang clear, trembling but defiant. All heads swiveled. She stood taller, cheeks aflame. “I-I accept.”

I held back a massive grin from splitting my face.

Yes, of course. I’d planted that seed in her a long time ago using Yara Greyjoy, just to prepare for this time. Of course she would accept. Don’t get me wrong, Sansa was a lovely girl, I liked her, but politically, she was a pawn who I manipulated to play exactly this role.

Margaery’s mask slipped—a flash of venom shooting toward Sansa. For a moment, I thought she might jump at the Stark girl. But then she laughed, light and false, as she looked at me. “As do I. But a kingdom can’t have two queens. I’m just curious about this… Who rules beside you?”

Clever rose. I grinned. “A fair question. Once again, this is very complicated. The first wife should rightfully be the Queen, but since I’m marrying you both, that puts me in a odd place. So I’d thought it over and decided to settle it with a test. One year from our wedding day, I’ll announce the Queen. Whichever of you proves most competent over the year will wear the crown.”

Mace spluttered. “Competent? Your Grace, do you intend to put my Margaery—” he started, but wisely his son Loras pinched his arm to stop him.

“A year,” Margaery said, stepping toward us. Her smile could’ve cut glass. “I’d hate to win by legacy alone.”

Sansa lifted her chin, also stepping closer. “Agreed.”

Robb looked confused, Catelyn looked angry, and the northerners growled approval; the Reachlords muttered into their sleeves. I spread my hands. “The weddings will be in a fortnight. After Lady Olenna’s pyre has cooled.”

Mace opened his mouth—to protest or preen, I didn’t care. I waved my hand, dissolved the court into hissed debates, alliances shifting like sand.

I leaned back, planning a true conquest where the realm would truly be on my palm, as I felt the Iron Throne’s blades poking into my flesh. This was a great start.

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