Cersei
“Where is Bran Stark?”
Baelish gave her an odd look. “I couldn’t possibly know.”
Cersei pursed her lips. He was a useful man, but only to an extent. She would’ve had to be an idiot to trust Petyr Baelish. But there were plenty of idiots in Washington. “You would have me believe you know everything.”
“I assure you, if I were privy to something so grave, the president would hear of it.”
“And to think, I took you for a clever man."
He laughed. His smile was at once knowing and guarded, a combination she didn't like one bit. “You have quite the knack for treason, Mrs. Baratheon, or is it just marital spite?”
She didn’t answer that. "Who would your real first call be?”
Nikina leapt onto his desk, her little fox ears twitching. He reached over to scratch her neck. Cersei got the feeling he just enjoyed the act of making her wait. “Shall I say you?”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“I’m offended that you question my loyalty.”
She smiled. “I think you’re disappointed.”
“Mm. Lannisters fail to surprise me.”
“I am a Lannister.” Cersei said. “You ought not to forget that.”
He glanced at Vasalis. The lion snarled. “I don’t think I could if I wanted to.”
She left the office with a copy of her speech and no more certainty than when she’d gone in. Maybe it was too much to accuse, even for someone like Baelish. He liked to keep secrets, but surely he had nothing to gain from obstructing the search for kidnapped children. All Baelish could be relied on to do was act in his own best interest. Whose interest was it, to steal a dozen kids?
The speech wasn’t bad. They paid Baelish to be good with words, he could very well write a few condolences. She’d make her edits, of course. She was at her desk reaching for a pen when the door swung open.
Cersei barely glanced up. “Oh. You.”
“Oh me.” Jaime never had been one to knock. “Agent Tarth, this is the first lady of the United States, my horribly rude sister.”
As Jaime slipped inside, Vasalis stepped forward to block the path of the woman that had followed him. Useful thing to have, a guard lion. Agent Tarth cleared her throat. “Your new head of security, ma'am.”
Cersei narrowed her eyes. “You’re secret service?” Tarth nodded. Begrudgingly, Vasalis backed off. “I have a bodyguard already.”
“He’s been asked to step down.”
“Why?”
Jaime answered her: “Because he was sleeping with twelve-year-old girls.”
Cersei’s fist crushed the paper in its grasp. Myrcella is twelve. The very thought made her nauseous, and blind with rage. But of course it hadn't been Myrcella. She would’ve known already, if it had been Myrcella. Jaime wouldn't have told her like this. And Trant was a stupid man, but he wasn’t quite thatstupid. If he'd had the gall to lay a hand on the President's daughter, he would’ve lost more than his job. “That would do it.”
A beat passed. “Tarth,” the woman introduced herself, redundantly. “Agent Tarth.”
“Yes, I heard.” Cersei cleared her throat. It was only then that she took the time to appraise the new agent properly. She certainly was an ugly thing, almost of a height with her dæmon, a thick-necked, powerful grey-brown horse that stood by her side. “I’ve never had a woman bodyguard.”
“They thought you might want— After Trant—”
“Yes.” Fine. She’d do well enough. Besides, by the looks of it she was only a woman in the most technical sense. Cersei truly didn’t care to bother herself with who the Secret Service sent her. Jaime had brought her, that meant he trusted her. And she trusted Jaime.
“Mrs. Baratheon—”
“'Ma’am',” Cersei corrected airily. She did get tired of saying this. “If you’re to be on my staff, I’m ma’am to you, not Mrs. Baratheon. And certainly not anything else.”
She saw Tarth give Jaime a sideways look. He only shrugged. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re quick.” Cersei smoothed the paper on the table. “You can leave us, Tarth, I would speak to my brother alone.”
Jaime laughed. Leave it to him to find this amusing. “Should she also bow at the neck, Your Majesty? Or would a full curtsey be more appropriate."
“If she likes.” He made fun, but it would be nice, to finally get a bit of respect around here. She studied her a moment longer. “And she’d do well not to turn her back on me.”
Once Tarth was gone, she looked to Jaime. “What do you make of her?”
“Tarth?" he asked, leaning on the edge of her desk. “I know her. She's a vet, served under me in Iraq. I'm fairly sure she’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
“Fairly?” Cersei watched his dæmon cross the room to Vasalis. Visya was a lion too, a she-lion of course, smaller, but hardly less fearsome. As a pair of beasts, they made a striking sight. Cersei had always thought it fitting, that their dæmons would match. They looked like they belonged together. “That’s comforting. Thank you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Would I put you in bad hands?”
“Last I checked, you weren’t the one making Secret Service appointments. Or did father finally make you get a job?”
Jaime waved her off. “You could do worse. Try to refrain from eating her alive, will you?”
“I’ll try."
"I make no promises," said Vasalis, laying his head on his paws.
"What is she, a lesbian?"
"Most likely." Jaime reached over, plucking the speech off the desk. Cersei watched him read, sitting back in her chair. “This is charming.”
“Father wants me playing at housewife again.”
“You are a housewife.”
Cersei made a face. “I’m the First Lady.”
“It is a very nice house.”
She stole it back out of his hand. “I had thought to be done with this nonsense once we were off the campaign trail. The least he could do is give me a job.”
“Maybe Ned Stark will quit, and you can have his. I heard he threw a tantrum in that conference yesterday.”
“Stormed out like a schoolboy.” Ned Stark was a frustrating piece of machinery in the Baratheon administration. He made no secret of his resentment for her. But there wasn’t much he could do, save for poison Robert against her, and that wasn’t a job that needed any more doing. “He shouldn’t have been there in the first place. We’ve no business having a chief of staff in his state.”
“Who would you suggest to replace him?”
Cersei pushed herself to her feet. “Would I really be such a poor choice?”
Jaime looked skeptical. “Do you want to be chief of staff?”
She did. Not a flashy job, admittedly, but an important one. And a powerful one. Everything that went to the president went through the chief of staff first. Which was exactly why Robert would never name her. “Yes.” She paced around the desk. “But father will never agree to it.”
“No. Rather likes you where you are, doesn’t he?”
“I’m sick of it,” she muttered, facing out the window. The capitol always seemed a rather bleak city, compared to their native Los Angeles. Sometimes Cersei thought she’d do better for herself out there, as a producer, or a personality—she figured she had the connections and the money to do just about whatever she wanted. But the White House had its own allure. And it was what her father did. That mattered more than she cared to admit.
Then a jolt of electricity traveled down her spine and she knew Jaime had his hand in Vasalis’ fur. Her fingers curled tight around the windowsill. The feeling was so familiar it may as well have been his hand on her shoulder, and not his hand on her soul—Except, of course, her shoulder wouldn’t have felt like this. They were never more one person than when they broke the Great Taboo, when her soul went rushing through him, or his through her. Then he pulled his hand away, and they were separate once again. It felt like being split in half. “You should be more careful.”
“Who’s going to see?”
“The window is open.”
“Nobody’s watching us.”
“That you know of.”
“Nobody’s watching us,” and then he did touch her shoulder, spinning her around to face him. There was nothing in the world more forbidden than touching another person’s dæmon.
But what he was about to do certainly came close.
She pulled away, brushing past him. “I’m going to speak to Robert.”
He wouldn’t like that. But she didn’t look back to see it.
“What do you want,” he asked, when his agents finally let her through. Already she could tell he was too drunk to be having this conversation. It wouldn’t end well. But she hadn’t come here to give up without trying. On the floor, his horrible little boar dæmon Maktoria grunted her displeasure.
Cersei folded her arms close across her chest. “I want to discuss my role in your administration.”
“I haven’t given you enough?”
“Not if you want to keep using me for damage control.” He was not a dignified drunk, never had been. No, Robert was by turns bumbling and brutal, with a quickly draining bottle in his hand, half dressed and disheveled. The most powerful man in America. What a lie that was. Her father had taken that title right out from under him—and for the best. She wrinkled her nose as he came close enough to smell—If the press could see him like this, he wouldn’t have a chance in hell at winning in November. Wasn’t it remarkable, what gross incompetence a decent suit could hide. “I want a promotion.”
He snorted. “What did you have in mind.”
“Chief of staff.”
“Ned Stark is chief of staff.”
“For how much longer?”
“For as long as I damn well like.” He slammed the bottle onto his desk. “Dammit, I’ve got one Lannister on my ass about this, I don’t need another.”
So Tywin wanted him gone too. She wondered who he was suggesting as a replacement. Was it too much to think that it would be her? She was his daughter, after all. Maybe Tywin had finally realized the potential he was wasting. The thought emboldened her. “Look at yourself, Robert. You’re a mess.”
“I don’t want to speak to you,” he mumbled.
“If you hadn’t noticed, your country is in crisis.”
“Cersei, for fuck’s sake—”
“—If you’re too much of a pathetic drunkard to speak to your wife, I should fear to see how you lead a nation.”
He hit her hard across the face.
Cersei grit her teeth, took the blow standing up. It stung, hard, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. A little pain. She swallowed her scream. “Careful.”
“Why should I be?”
Because my brother will bash your skull in. “Because I’ll go to the press.”
It seemed to pause him, at least a moment. “And say what?”
“Say anything. You’ve just left me a bruise.”
“They wouldn’t believe you.”
“Are you sure you want to gamble?" Cersei raised her hand to her face. Her eyes were watering, against her will, her skin furious and hot underneath her fingertips. Christ, he was strong. She pressed the tears away while he wasn’t looking. “Twitter isn’t very kind to bastards who beat their wives.”
“I barely touched you.”
This time. "How would it look for your re-election, I wonder?”
Robert turned around, like he'd only just realized what she was saying. “You bitch." He looked like he might hit her again. Maybe he would’ve: she wouldn't be surprised if he was stupid enough—or drunk enough. Before he could, Vasalis stepped forward and roared, mightily, sending him stumbling back. “Fucking bitch. I never should've married you," he muttered. "Get out."
Cersei had enough self-preservation left in her to take him at his word. She turned and left. Outside the door, Tarth was waiting for her.
"Ma'am?" Cersei ignored her, starting down the hallway towards her own rooms in the residence. "Ma'am, your face—"
"Your job is to be silent, Agent Tarth. If that proves too much for you, I'll find a replacement."
There was a silence, but Cersei didn't stop to see if Tarth was still following her. Finally, she spoke again. "With respect, ma'am, my job is to protect you."
"From the President?" Probably she shouldn't have said it, God knew who was listening, but her anger got the better of her.
"If I need to."
Cersei stopped in front of her door, her hand on the doorknob. "You're dismissed, Tarth."
A pause. "Yes, ma'am."
Cersei heard her footsteps retreating. 'Tarth?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"What's your first name?"
"Brienne, ma'am."
Cersei glanced at her over her shoulder. "Don't ever presume to insert yourself into my marriage again, Brienne."
Tarth was swinging her leg over the back of her horse dæmon, settling in to ride. From his back, she could’ve been nearly twice Cersei’s height. She gave her a nod. "Goodnight, ma'am." And the horse turned around, carrying her off down the hall.
Cersei pushed open the door to her apartments. It was dead silent inside, alone at last in the suite of high-ceilinged, well-furnished rooms that were her only real reprieve from the tedium of White House affairs. She couldn’t really go to the press, not yet. There was her father to think of. And Jaime. Of course Jaime. But it’d been a good threat, maybe even enough to make him think twice before he tried it again. And a well-timed threat was loath to be underestimated.
Still, this role grew tiresome. She could understand a political marriage, but the benefit was meant to be mutual. And in truth it had been her father’s scheme, not hers. She was beginning to wonder how much advantage Robert really afforded her. What had she gotten, really, besides this apartment? There was that thought again: Maybe she’d do better on her own. She could leave him. Divorce the president, make some headlines. Then what? Run for office, maybe—Jaime wouldn’t, but why shouldn’t she? A divisive move, sure, but a decisive one. She was tired of running in place. She was impatient. Besides, times had changed. A divisive woman wasn’t the worst thing to be.
She sat down on her bed, pulled her phone out of her pocket. The crumpled copy of the speech was sitting on her pillow. Jaime must have been here. She had one text from him and ignored it, leaning back to study the ceiling. Vasalis leapt up next to her, curling his body like an oversized housecat.
“You’re bigger than this,” he said. He knew what she was thinking, of course. He was her. “We deserve more."
“I’m a Lannister,” she muttered, reaching up to stroke his mane. Power is my birthright.
Vasalis closed his eyes. “So show them.”