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Cersei learned of Alderaan’s destruction right from the Emperor’s mouth.
She had never cared much for the down and dirty work of rebellion, she would beat the Emperor at his own game in his own court. Somehow, she hadn’t expected the game to become quite so real so fast.
Her coldly cordial smile didn’t waver. Her hands didn’t tremble as they smoothed out her gown, the height of Imperial fashion.
She wouldn’t give the hungry sharks at court the satisfaction of shock and grief. He would not see her falter.
She spoke with cool disdain of tragedies and deep within her, every word burned hot.
Cersei didn’t cry when she returned to her quarters.
“How dare he?” she hissed, receiving no answer that could satisfy.
She paced and gulped down wine that tasted of home – a home stolen from her. How dare he?
“Does he not know who he is dealing with?”
He didn’t, of course, nor did he need to care: He was the Emperor.
She flung her glass and watched red stain the wall.
Her handmaidens scrambled to clean up the mess; Cersei stilled in body and mind.
Alderaan had been a world of peace and benevolence, and she had been ill-suited to be its princess.
Now it was gone and she was princess of nothing but stardust.
She looked down at her hands, which knew to wield a blaster yet rarely had; she preferred to kill with careful words. She had never been a good fit for Alderaan while it was alive.
She had been no good fit for Alderaan in life but she would be in death, Cersei decided. She had always understood vengeance better than mercy.
And when she was done, Palpatine would be emperor of nothing but stardust, and she would wear his crown.