Chapter Text
“You may come in.”
As if he had a choice.
Theon entered the Queen’s solar escorted by two goldcloaks. The Queen was seated at a table near the open balcony doors, a pitcher of wine in front of her and a half-filled goblet in one hand. She didn’t turn to face them, instead calling over her shoulder, “In the future, when the Queen requests your presence, you are to come right away.”
“I came at my earliest convenience, Your Grace,” Theon said through gritted teeth.
“Yes, I’m sure you did.” She lifted the goblet and took an unwomanly drink. “Next time you decide to put off one of my requests, I’ll have the guards bring me your head instead.”
She was obviously deeply into her cups, but Theon didn’t put it past her to make good on her threat. He didn’t put much past her, in honesty.
She set her goblet down and waved her hand dismissively at the guards. Her many gold rings flashed in the light. “Leave us.”
The guards nodded and left. The door closed heavily behind them.
“If you keep telling them to leave us alone together, the court will start talking,” Theon commented, not feeling any of his usual barb.
Cersei still didn’t turn to face him, but beckoned him closer with her finger. “Come, sit.”
He did, taking the seat across from her. A second goblet had been set out for him. He wasn’t interested in her wine, or anything she had to offer. He’d rather shatter it and use the broken glass to cut her throat, but they both knew he wouldn’t even try. Instead he sat with his hands folded in his lap and glared at the tabletop. “You wished to speak with me, Your Grace?”
“Ah, hmm…” She poured herself another glass. “Tell me, Greyjoy, you’re a young, virile man.” She was mocking him. “What do you think of Margaery Tyrell?”
“Margaery Tyrell?” he repeated. “The King’s new fiancée?” He’d been there when Joffrey had set Sansa aside in favor of a bride with land and money and armies. He hadn’t given her much thought beyond gratitude that Sansa was no longer in her position. And perhaps that he’d seen whores who covered more skin. In answer to Cersei, he shrugged. “She seems a fine match for your son.”
To his surprise, Cersei threw her goblet at him. He lifted his arm to protect his face, and blood-red wine splattered across his sleeve and doublet. The goblet clattered on the ground but didn’t shatter. “The little bitch,” Cersei hissed, standing and pushing her chair back. “Seducing my son with her wiles, her pretty face.”
Theon was entirely uncertain what to say.
“Tell me the truth, Greyjoy? Would you fuck her?”
“Your Grace, I—”
“Would you fuck her tight little cunt?”
Theon gripped the armrests. What was this about? Was she trying to mock him? <Maybe I’ll let you fuck me after all.> Memories of her clutching the back of his head, holding him in place. <Beg me like you’re a maiden.> How long was she going to draw this out?
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to fuck her. I don’t want to touch her. I will avert my gaze whenever I see her, if that’s what would please Your Grace.”
She glowered at him for a moment.
“What do you want, Greyjoy?”
His knuckles popped with how tight he was holding the armrests. “Whatever pleases Your Grace.”
“Now, now.” She came around the side of the table. Her dress rustled along the floor, but he could hear her shoes. She wasn’t bare underneath. She wasn’t going to…
She knelt down and put a hand against his jaw. He pulled away, but she was insistent, forcing him to look up and into her dead, green eyes.
“Do you want to go home?”
She’d offered that before, in exchange for writing a letter to Robb. And yet here he still was, in Kings Landing. She couldn’t be trusted. He’d known it for a long time now. There was no way in the Drowned God’s watery halls that he was going to fall for her false promises again.
“I will send you home,” she said, still caressing his face. It repulsed him. “I will give you whatever you want.” She leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear. “Anything.”
He tried to wriggle out of her grasp.
“I will name you King of the Iron Islands.”
He stopped at that. He could feel her grinning against his ear.
“Does that appeal to you, Lord Greyjoy? I will give the Ironborn reign of the North once the Starks are put down. Perhaps you will be Prince of Winterfell until your father passes. Or perhaps I will unseat Balon and give you the Iron Islands instead, by my royal decree.”
He didn’t trust her. Not for one moment did he believe she would actually do it.
“What do I need to do in return?” he asked.
“Simple. I want you to seduce Margaery Tyrell.”
***
The palace gardens were a fair bit pleasanter than the battle camps. And yet Margaery would not be surprised if her grandmother preferred the latter. She looked like a war general today, setting out the cyvasse pieces as Margaery ducked into the pavilion—the old woman’s council tent among the climbing ivy.
“Good morning, Grandmother.”
“Is it?” Without looking up from her work, she waved Margaery over.
Margaery sat across from her and studied the board. She tapped her finger on the dragon piece, the sharp edges of its wings worn from her grandmother’s many years of playing this board. “I spoke with Sansa. She is quite receptive to the idea of marrying Willas.”
“Good,” Olenna said curtly.
“I was a bit worried she wouldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Well…because she’s infatuated with the Greyjoy boy.”
“Tell you this herself, did she?”
“I can read between the lines, Grandmother.”
Olenna hummed in agreement and finished laying out the board. “I will admit, he’s a bit of a wild piece in our game. The Greyjoys would be valuable allies—better than enemies at any rate—and they could prove useful when the time comes to turn the Northmen back to their frozen wasteland. Unfortunately, we can’t buy this one with a marriage. Well, unless he fancies marrying Loras. He does strike me as the sort.” She sat back in her chair. “Your move, dear.”
Margaery thought for a moment. A crossbowman was always a bit of a risk on the opening move, but it could pay off well several moves down the line. She picked the piece up and moved it. “By all accounts, he hates the Lannisters as much as Sansa does.”
“They are not difficult to hate.”
“No, but it may prove difficult to approach him.”
“You’ll find a way, dear, I’m sure.”
Margaery smirked. “What are you implying, Grandmother?”
“Nothing.” She reached for her turn, ignoring Margaery’s risky opening move. “Absolutely nothing.”