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It’s as hot and sticky a summer day as all the others. He’s newly sixteen and old enough to be afforded his own rooms, however small, but he’s bedded down with Tyrek since they were little boys, and sees no cause to change that now. Truthfully, he is closer to Tyrek than his own brothers. Out of kindness towards his mother, Will and Mart were left at home, squiring for older cousins.
But Lancel was the oldest and the most regal in his bearing, to hear his father tell it, so he was ushered off to court as a page boy at ten, which was the youngest his soft-hearted mother could part with him, and his father, too. Tyrek came along, a baleful six year old with his dead father’s stubborn scowl and tightly wound curls. There were four years betwixt them, but Lancel was a timid and thin-skinned ten, and Tyrek a determined and precocious six.
By the time Lancel was thirteen and made a squire to the king, he begged his father to insist to the queen that Tyrek be brought up in stature as well, though nine was young to squire. And so it has always gone. They spend their days together, or with Joffrey, sparring and playing, or occasionally separated by some errand or fear of Robert. He’s never beaten either of them, though he often threatens to, but when he’s drunk the slightest mishap or mistake can send him into a rage, and Lancel has become adept at ducking meaty fists and darting out of rooms.
“He keeps us graceful and light on our feet,” Tyrek once joked, and Lancel laughed at that, though the thought of turning up with a black eye or bloodied nose had turned his stomach over. He’s no craven, but taking a blow from your king is shaming; not like a scuffle with another boy. Not that he scuffles much with anyone but Tyrek.
Joffrey will boast and goad like he wants a scrap, but everyone knows not to lay more than a finger on him. He wouldn’t scream for his mother anymore, but he would go skulking back to her with his tail between his legs, and Tyrek or Lancel would be whipped for it.
Still, Lancel doesn’t hate his cousin. Joffrey will be king someday- someday soon, if Robert keeps up as he always has- and loathing him is not worth it. Some of Joffrey’s cruel japes can be funny, Lancel will admit- he’s no squeamish girl- but he doesn’t like the business with animals, unless it’s a proper hunt. His mother always kept cats back at home, kittens clawing at her skirts as she sewed or spun or read.
Seeing Joffrey fill a cat up with bolts or toss it off a landing makes him queasy, though he can hide it with a smirk. There’s no sense in looking weak in front of the other boys- men. He’s of age now and a man, even if he still sleeps with his legs tangled up in his cousins, like a child. He pushes himself up from the matted sheets, stiff with sweat from the humid night, and gulps down cool water from the bottle on the nightstand.
Tyrek stirs blearily and rolls over to face the shuttered windows, where a thin strip of early sunlight pierces through, like an arrow slit on the dusty floor.
“The hunt’s today,” Lancel reminds him, when he’s done drinking, wiping at his chin. He can still barely grow more than some sandy stubble, to his dismay, but at least he has cause to shave. Tyrek is tall and strong for his age, and may someday be broader than the lean and narrowly built Lancel, but for now he still has four years of catching up to do. His voice has only just begun to break. At least Lancel no longer sounds like a girl, though he’s been teased that his singing is as sweet as one.
Sometimes, the queen asks him to sing for her and her ladies. He doesn’t much like it, because they generally ignore him and chatter amongst themselves, or busy themselves with embroidery or reading. Once he was so annoyed and self conscious by the end of it that the queen- Cersei, she is still his cousin, even if she has been queen near all his life- teased him for it, and he had to fight not to lose his temper, or worse, look like he might cry. He was young, then, though, only thirteen or so.
“It’ll be a good long one, at least,” Tyrek growls into his pillow. He’s propped himself up on his elbows and knees, and he looks ridiculous. Lancel almost chortles at the sight of him, but settles for swatting Tyrek with a pillow.
“You’ll be crying for your mother by the third day.”
“Crying for a warm soft bed, maybe,” Tyrek grouses, shoving the pillow away, but he rubs away the sleep from his eyes, replacing it with boyish excitement. His hair is lovelier than Lancel’s; properly golden blonde, rather than sandy, but he lacks the Lannister green eyes; his are dark brown, owed to his Marbrand mother. His hair was more copper when he was young, too, but it softened to a proper Lannister shade as he aged.
Still, three weeks of hunting in high summer is nothing to scoff at. It will be the longest Lancel has ever been out in the Kingswood, and he knows camping for days on end is different from the occasional ride out through the trees. He’s excited, too, and a little nervous, though he’d never admit it. This isn’t a game for children; he and Tyrek are considered akin to grown men by their inclusion. There will be no women, either, which is in some ways both a relief and a disappointment.
Lancel has never doubted his looks; girls flirt with him often, and look at him even more frequently- of all ages, from chubby little maids of ten or eleven to willowy creatures past twenty. He knows he’s handsome and charming, and he likes the attention. His father says he enjoys any sort of attention a little too much; he thinks Lancel sometimes veers from the level of pride that is due to a Lannister into impudence and insolence.
He and Tyrek dress swiftly, then trot down to the kitchens to swipe some breakfast. Tyrek has a crush on one of the kitchen girls, which Lancel finds endlessly amusing, though he’d never tease Tyrek about it in public. Lancel leans against a doorframe lazily, waiting for someone to bring him something to eat, somewhat appreciative of the fuss their presence causes.
The cooks are irritated but don’t dare complain much, the servers under them are scurrying about like mice, and the girl who lugs over a tray full of toast and butter and eggs and cider for them is doubly flushed, both from the heat of the kitchens and her proximity to two of the highest ranking squires at court. Lancel will be knighted, soon, his father has promised him that, so long as he causes no major offense or insult.
And eventually he will have lands of his own, be they in the Westerlands or elsewhere. A wife, too, though he is in no rush to be wed. Wedding too young is a detriment to men. One needs to sow their wild oats a bit beforehand. Look at the king. Perhaps if they held off on his marriage several years, he’d have fewer bastards.
What Lancel could not admit, though, is that beyond some tipsy fumbling in the dark with the odd scullery maid, he has never properly had a woman. He’s not ashamed of it, exactly- why should he shame himself with whores, like the Imp? He would not want to catch anything ruinous from one drunken night at a brothel. But he does feel a certain self-consciousness about it, now that he is sixteen. It would not do to still be a green boy in that sense, once he has been knighted. He’d be a laughingstock.
Tyrek has no such worries; Tyrek’s experience with girls is awkward infatuations and teasing nudges. He certainly is not thinking of taking a wife to bed. Lancel watches as his younger cousin licks crumbs off his fingers like a stableboy, as they sit in one of the many sunny courtyards, besides a burbling fountain installed by a long dead Targaryen queen.
“How long do you think Stark will last?” Tyrek asks, though he is careful to keep his voice low. “They say he tried to quit last week, and the king refused him. I do not think he will last the year. He’s been wanting to run back North since he arrived.”
Lancel shrugs; it’s no concern of his what Ned Stark does, though he knows he should be outraged over the Imp’s capture by his shrew of a wife. He knows Tywin is incensed, back ay the Rock, and Jaime is likely on his way there now, to decide what must be done about it.
But it all feels very distant and removed to Lancel. No one would dare actually harm a Lannister, even a half-man, and like as not some hefty fine or ransom will be paid, Lord Tully will get a swat on the wrist for his daughter’s actions on his land, and Tyrion will be released unharmed.
“I say the sooner the better,” he says, finishing the last of his cider. “My father should be Hand, not some northerner well past his prime.” Of course, his father is a decade older than Ned Stark, but in spirit, he is far fiercer. “As our lord uncle was before the Rebellion. It is owed to us, as Lannisters. We have always served the realm’s best interests.”
“Aye, and then you could be Joff’s Hand, is that it?” Tyrek snickers, and evades Lancel’s swat. “Ah, come off it. The king will never make your father Hand, no more than he would Uncle Tywin. He’ll summon his brother, if Stark quits.”
“Stannis?” Lancel wrinkles his nose. “I’d rather Renly. At least he knows how to dress and speak as befits a nobleman. Stannis dresses like a penitent beggar and speaks like a droning septon.”
“He doesn’t even pray to the Seven,” Tyrek rolls his dark eyes.
“All the worse for it. He’s a heretic.” But there is no passion behind Lancel’s accusations; he’s not much one for prayer himself, much to his devout mother’s dismay. It’s not that he lacks faith, only there are always far more interesting and exciting things he could be doing than getting down on his knees in some musty old sept.
Lancel might say more; he enjoys talking politics, particularly with Tyrek, because it makes him feel knowledgeable and experienced, an old hand at courtier business, when one of the queen’s ladies arrives. It’s Cerenna, daughter to the late Lady Joanna’s brother Ser Stafford. She shoots Lancel a coy look, but he’s disinterested. Cersei pays very little mind to her younger ladies and what they do, and Cerenna is of loose morals and looser skirts. He has no plans on being her latest conquest.
“The Queen bids you attend on her before the hunt departs, cousin,” she says, flicking some of her honeyed blonde ringlets over her shoulders. When Tyrek rises as well, she rolls her eyes. “Not you.”
Tyrek mutters something under his breath, and stalks off, leaving the tray full of crumbs and empty dishes. Lancel shoots an apologetic glance after him, but he can hardly refuse to see Cersei. He imagines she has something about Robert to tell him, some demand or request.
Perhaps she thinks he can convince the king to return sooner from the trip- Lancel is no fool, he knows Cersei loathes her husband, but he thinks she is leery of Lord Stark. Robert is dangerous in his drunken rages, yes, but Eddard Stark is dangerous in a different manner. Lancel knows his sort. He thinks himself superior to the excesses and luxury of court, and seeks to expose their flaws and faults.
And it is well known Stark has no fondness for House Lannister, and never has. He’s an enemy, and the sooner his time as Hand comes to an end, the better. It’s not that Lancel wishes to see Robert ruin the realm. He is no proper king. But Joffrey could be one, with the right guidance. If Lancel’s father were here, he could set Joffrey to rights, after Robert is dead. Lancel can admit that might take time- years- but it is better than the alternative.
Lancel has been in Cersei’s apartments many times, and is unsurprised to find them full of light and people. Her ladies and a few septas cluster around Tommen and Myrcella, who are playing on the balcony overlooking the gardens, and Cersei has clearly just finished dressing for the day. Her beautiful golden curls are done up in a bouquet of looping braids at the back of her head, secured with an ornate golden comb carved in the shape of a reposing lioness. Her gown is a dark forest green that brings out her striking eyes, with red and pink flowers and vines stitched along the bodice and down the close fitting sleeves, which taper in a V over her elegant hands.
“Lancel,” she says, when she finally deigns to acknowledge his presence. “You are not even dressed to ride yet. I remind you, cousin, that belatedness is a vice, not a virtue.”
“But by some innate virtue, I was not late to come to you, Your Grace,” he retorts.
Cersei’s eyes flash, but with amusement, not fury; she throws back her head and laughs at his daring. She would never tolerate such a response from someone who was not kin, but Lancel knows where the lines are drawn by now. In truth, he gets a small thrill from brushing up against them. Yes, Cersei is his queen, and he is often intimidated by her- everything- her beauty, her grace, her easy shifts between capricious cruelty and gentle, honeyed compliments- but she is still his kinswoman, and had she never married Robert, she would just be another woman of the family.
Though perhaps not ‘just another’. His throat tightens slightly as she rises from her lounge, though he is of a height with her. No other Lannister woman is so beautiful. He loves his mother, but she is plain, and while some of his aunts are pretty, they are like candles in the wind compared to the raging fire of loveliness that is Cersei. His father once said only Lady Joanna was more beautiful than her, but Lancel has only ever seen portraits of his long dead aunt. Cersei is no faded, waxy painting. She is a living, breathing woman.
“I have summoned you here to ensure you are prepared to attend to His Grace during this… excursion,” her rosy upper lip curls in dismay for a moment, before relaxing again. “But I see all you are prepared to do is offer me sly retorts, Lancel. Gods have shame on you. Whatever are we to do with such an insolent boy?” She lays an dainty hand on his shoulder, and squeezes, affectionately, but with surprising strength. He reddens, and several of her ladies- including Cerenna- chuckle.
He steps back as Cersei lets go and moves around him, calling to the women tending to her children. “Myrcella! Tommen! It is time you went to bid goodbye to your father- if he can be roused- and then off to your lessons.”
Reluctantly, the children come back inside, arms full of kittens and dolls. Cersei impatiently waits until their arms are free, then hugs and kisses both of them, before ushering them off. One of Tommen’s kittens swipes at Lancel’s boot as it passes; he scoffs at its nerve, while Myrcella giggles.
Once, years ago, he recalls eavesdropping on his parents, and hearing some wistful talk that perhaps Robert could be convinced to marry Myrcella back into the Lannister line. If Jaime is never released from the Kingsguard, Casterly Rock will pass to Lancel’s father. Tywin would never tolerate the Imp succeeding him. And then Lancel would someday inherit from his own father, and his bride would be Lady Lannister.
It would be no real diminishment for Myrcella, a princess. But even then, his father conceded it was unlikely to happen- that he feared Robert would choose a Stark, or even Hoster Tully’s heir, over his goodfamily. And in part, he was correct, with Joffrey betrothed to Sansa. Lancel thinks the girl pretty enough, but she is just a child, truly, an insipid if courteous one, like most girls her age.
She would be a tolerable queen, he supposes. Thankfully that direwolf of hers was killed before they came to court. He can only imagine having to attend on a queen with a vicious beast following her every move. Bad enough that the younger Stark girl conducts herself like a little savage- if she can be found at all. He’s barely seen more than a glimpse of her since the royal party returned to court.
The prince and princess leave, and with them half of the women. Cersei summarily dismisses the rest as well, with various errands to run or messages to carry- to the stablemaster, to the head cook, to the gardeners, to Maester Pycelle.
When they are all finally gone, Cersei sits one much, in a gilded armchair before her cold hearth. The rooms are slightly cooler with the absence of so many warm bodies, and the breeze flowing through the gauzy curtains is pleasant, but Lancel still picks at his silk collar uncomfortably. He’ll have to change into his riding leathers soon, and he’ll be roasting.
“Lancel,” Cersei says, lightly, and waves him a little closer. He steps forward, within reach but not directly beside her.
“For all my teasing, you are a good and able squire to my husband,” she says, more kindly now that they are alone. “If I needle you, it is only because I know you are capable of so much more. You are sixteen now; you ought to be knighted soon. My brother was fifteen when he received his, and from none other than Ser Arthur Dayne himself.”
Lancel perks up, though he is trying not to look too eager. “I only wish to prove myself, Your Grace. I am one of the strongest jousters in the yard, and my swordplay has vastly improved, Ser Aron Santagar will tell you as much-,”
“I know, I know,” she waves a hand covered in rings- rubies and emerald and garnets- at him. “Of course, Lancel. You are young and strong and fit; every woman at court knows that.” She smiles at him, directly, almost coy. He waits for the jape, but it never comes. She was almost… flirtatious. He finds himself paralyzed, not with fear, but something else.
“Truly, I think a knighthood will be in short order,” she says, and reaches out a hand to him. To Lancel’s surprise, she does not take his hand, but lets hers hang there, in the air, like a fleshy bird poised mid-flight. After a moment, he dares to take it. He almost wishes he were wearing gloves, despite the heat. She is the queen. She is his kin, aye, but she is the queen, and a married mother. He is a man now. This is verging on improper.
“In short order,” she continues, “so long as you continue to serve Robert so ably. I am sure you will do your duty on this trip, Lancel. Meet my husband’s demands, no matter how ill-thought they often are. Robert is a grown man, a king. He knows what he wants. Food, women, drink…” She trails off, and squeezes Lancel’s hand. Hers is so warm and soft. He can feel his face on fire. “Deny him nothing, cousin. Particularly his drink.”
Lancel licks his lips, and manages a weak, “But it is dangerous, to imbibe so much while hunting… particularly boar, His Grace is determined to catch that boar the smallfolk have seen roaming the wood…”
“Particularly boar,” Cersei agrees calmly, and tugs him forward by the hand. He can smell her perfume. His eyes water, but he’s not distraught. Far from it. She’s… everything about her is so… how can she does this to him? She must know what she does. To all men. And to him. Is she mocking him? But she seems so sincere, her voice is deadly serious-
“His favorite strongwine is already packed,” Cersei says. “More than enough for three weeks, but we both know you cannot start off with so potent a drink…. You must give His Grace time to work up to it. Perhaps not until you are certain the boar is near.”
He almost jerks his hand away. Is she truly implying- this is madness. To hate your husband, and for good reason, is one thing. To… to entreat his own squire to… to deceive him into…
“Lancel,” she says, and lets go of his hand. To his shock her eyes are shining like wet velvet. “I must be able to rely on you. Please. I have no one, with my brother fled, and my father so far. Not even your father is here to advise me. And Lord Stark wishes me ill. Please, Lancel. Can you not do this one thing for me? I have so few I can trust.”
A tear rolls down her high cheekbone.
Lancel crouches down beside her chair, speechless, and then seizes her hands in his own.
“I’ll help you,” he says, fervently. Has he not seen Robert rage at and berate his wife? Threaten her? The king is no true and chivalrous husband. He shames his wife and children with every breath.
He is not a good man. He may have been one once, but he is no longer. Lancel remembers when he hit Joffrey so badly, after that incident with the cat, that Joff lost teeth. His lips were swollen and bloody for weeks, his jaw battered. How can a man like that be their king? Be Lancel’s master? He would rather squire for Jaime, the Kingslayer himself, than Robert.
“Don’t cry,” he says, and almost reaches up to wipe her tears away with his sleeve. “Cersei- I mean, Your Grace, please, don’t worry-,”
“Thank you,” she breathes, and pulls his head into her lap, pressing an almost motherly kiss to his head. But her hand on the back of his neck feels anything but. His cheek is pressed against her thigh. Then she lets him up, holding his hands in her own. She kisses his knuckles. He aches from head to toe with the desire to pull her up with him.
She lets go. He stumbles back from her. He can tell Tyrek none of this. His cousin is just a child, and would never understand what has transpired, like something from a story. The beautiful, heartbroken queen, desperate for the protection of a goodly, true knight. Asking him to defend her person, to protect the realm. And his breathless acceptance of this quest. He can never tell anyone this. But he will know. His great shame and his great honor, intertwined.
“I wish you fair weather and good hunting, Ser Lancel,” she says, as she stands from her chair.
“I- thank you,” he murmurs, and lets her see him to the door.