"Sandor Clegane."
Cersei tilted her slender, pale neck back, looking down at the Hound with eyes that shimmered like cold emeralds. She was trembling with a fury she could no longer suppress. "You wear a white cloak, dog. That means your life belongs to the King and the Queen Regent. Not to the Tyrells."
Her unspoken accusation hung in the air: Why did you stop me from disciplining that Tyrell girl?
Sandor did not raise his head. He remained on one knee, his massive frame casting a jagged shadow across the plush Myrish carpets. He had known this confrontation was coming the moment he stepped between the two queens. "Your Majesty," he rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "Lord Tywin gave me my orders: protect your safety, and the safety of Queen Margaery. I follow the Hand's word."
"Do not use my father's name to shield your insolence!" Cersei snapped, pacing the room. "I am the Queen Regent! I command the Hand, and I command you!"
The Hound remained silent. He knew enough of the court's poison to know that anything he said now would be a noose.
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the crackle of the peat fire in the hearth. The flames made the gilded furniture and silver filigree sparkle with an artificial warmth. On the walls hung magnificent tapestries depicting the "Field of Fire", the day the Reach and the West combined their might at Goldengrove to meet Aegon the Conqueror. The silk images showed thousands of men burning in their armor, while three dragons soared above, breathing an end to the old world.
The Lannisters of that age had survived the fire by kneeling. Cersei, staring at the embroidery, realized she would have to use the fire herself if she wanted to survive the roses.
Goldengrove had become a gilded cage. Every servant was a Rowan or a Tyrell. Every meal was prepared by hands she didn't trust. Her ladies-in-waiting had been "replaced" for their own safety, leaving her isolated among enemies who smiled while they sharpened their shears.
"Sandor," Cersei said, her voice suddenly softening into a melodic, dangerous purr. "Stand up, my knight."
Clegane stood, his eyes wary.
"You said you would defend my life and Tommen's. I believe you," she lied, stepping closer until she could smell the sour ale on his breath. "But we are not safe here. The enemies are not outside the walls; they are the ones serving our wine. We must leave Goldengrove."
"Where would we go?" Sandor asked. "Lord Tywin is at Crakehall, and the road to King's Landing is held by Stannis. Bitterbridge is a Tyrell camp. You are safest here."
"Safe?" Cersei laughed, a jagged sound. "I am a prisoner in all but name. When the time comes, when I give the word, we leave. Do you understand, Lannister dog?"
"I am loyal to the Lion," Sandor grunted, though his eyes betrayed a deep, weary conflict.
"Good. Go now. Send the Kettleblacks to me."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the three Kettleblack brothers entered the solar. They were drenched in sweat from the training yard, their eyes roaming over Cersei with a crude, unmasked hunger. To Cersei, they were little more than stray dogs base, predictable, and easily leashed with the promise of a scrap of meat.
"Is it ready?" Cersei asked. She had changed into a gown of crimson silk that left her shoulders bare and dipped low enough to reveal the pale curve of her breasts.
"Everything is prepared, Your Majesty," Osmund Kettleblack whispered. "Osfryd secured the jars from a smuggler in the Fruit Wine Hall. Osney has hidden them among the tallow and the grain in the lower cellars."
"Wildfire," Cersei whispered, a thrill of dark excitement racing through her.
She had two plans. The first was an outing, a peaceful stroll by the river to "mend rifts" with Margaery. If that failed to provide an opening for escape, she would burn Goldengrove to the ground and flee in the chaos.
"You have done well," Cersei said, gesturing for them to sit beside her. She saw the way Osney's gaze lingered on her feet. She knew the power she held over men like this. If a sword was a man's weapon, a woman's weapon was the distance between her heart and her hemline.
"Your Majesty," Osney said, his voice thick with a sudden, brazen lust. "This is a dangerous game. If the Hand finds out we burned a High Lord's seat, our heads will be on spikes. We need some... encouragement."
He didn't wait for permission. He reached out, his rough hand snagging the silk of her gown.
Rip.
Cersei's first instinct was to scream for the guards and have them flayed. But she realized with a sickening jolt that she had no guards left but these three. The Kingsguard followed Tywin; the Red Cloaks followed the Hand. Only these ruffians followed her.
She closed her eyes and opened her arms, a hollow smile on her lips. "Then take your encouragement, brave warriors. But remember, if we do not clear the gates tomorrow, the fire will claim you as well."
"I particularly like the crown, Your Majesty," Osney whispered, leaning in. "Keep it on. I want to see the gold while I work."
The following afternoon was deceptively dry and warm—summer's final, desperate struggle against the encroaching autumn.
A royal procession moved slowly out of the gates of Goldengrove. Twenty Lannister Red Cloaks led the way, their lion-shaped helmets glinting in the sun. The Kingsguard surrounded the carriage, with Sandor Clegane carrying the banner of King Tommen I, the Stag and the Lion entwined. Twenty Highgarden knights followed as a "courtesy" escort.
Inside the carriage, the air was tense. Tommen sat with a book in his lap, a small, hopeful smile on his face. His mother had promised to apologize to Margaery today, to end the bickering that had made the castle feel like a tomb.
Margaery, however, remained wary. She sat in her green gauze dress, her brown eyes tracking Cersei's every movement. She had felt the shift in the air, a sense of impending finality that Cersei's smiles couldn't mask.
They reached a scenic bend in the river north of the city, shaded by ancient oaks and carpeted with wildflowers. It was a place for poets, not for war.
"Your Majesty, we have arrived," Sandor called from outside.
Margaery pulled back the curtain to look out, but a sudden, terrified shout from the rearguard shattered the tranquility.
"LOOK! THE CASTLE!"
Margaery leaned out further, her heart stopping. In the distance, a massive plume of thick, oily black smoke was rising from the heart of Goldengrove. Within seconds, a brilliant, sickly green flash illuminated the base of the towers.
Wildfire.
"Oh no!" Tommen cried, clutching Margaery's hand. "Mother, the castle is on fire!"
Cersei slowly opened her eyes, a look of serene, terrifying satisfaction on her face. She leaned toward the window. "Clegane! The time has come! Move!"
"Where, Your Majesty?" the Hound roared over the rising panic of the Tyrell knights.
"To your home, dog!" Cersei commanded, her voice ringing with a new authority. "We ride for Clegane Keep! It is time I paid my respects to my father at Crakehall."
As the horses were spurred into a frantic gallop, Cersei looked at her shocked son and his "Poison Rose" wife. She had burned her bridges - literally and now the only road left led back to the Lion's den.
[Strategic Event: The Burning of Goldengrove.]
[Status: Royal Family fleeing Tyrell custody.]
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