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The silver queen always sits with Cersei while she does her needlework. Cersei doesn’t understand why a Queen would bother. Needlework does make nice things, and Cersei has learned how to control the strange jumpiness in her hands enough to sit and work. Her needlework is good now, finally, as befits a maiden almost grown. But, still! If she were Queen—when she is Queen—she’d never look upon a needle again. She wouldn’t even stand to sit in the same room as needlework, not even if she had a daughter.
The queen sews, too, something for Princess Elia. Cersei can make out a Martell sun with a dragon in flight above it. The sun and dragon grow bigger by the day, as the queen works quickly. She works as though this is all she does. She doesn’t even cry out when she pricks her finger.
At first, Cersei tried to speak to her. She wanted to know what it would be like to speak to a Queen, a real Queen. But Queen Rhaella did not seem to have much to say, and Cersei stopped asking.
Just like her father is not King, yet seems to do all the work, she thinks, perhaps the Targaryen women are just as dreadful at their duties as the Targaryen men are.
Today Cersei can’t bear the silence. Sitting with this Queen is like sitting with a cold statue. She’d almost rather be sitting with fat Jeyne Farman back at home, listening to her prattle on about the stable-boys.
Though it’s been a while since a needle prick has made Cersei cry out, she makes sure to stick her finger harder than usual. A drop of blood appears on her pale skin.
“Bugger that!” she cries. Her mouth wants to twist into a big grin. She fights it, but she doesn’t think she can hide the sparkle in her eyes. She looks at the Queen.
Rhaella doesn’t say anything.
Cersei waits, and waits, and waits.
“Why are you just sitting there like that?” Cersei snaps, finally. She’s not being ladylike, but she hardly cares. She’s a Lannister. Her father rules the realm in all but name. She may ask whatever she likes. “You’re the Queen. Why are you sitting here sewing? You don’t have an ugly old septa telling you what to do. I would never sew if I were Queen. Go be Queen!”
Cersei covers her mouth in shock as soon as she’s said it. She’s surprised even herself.
She waits for Rhaella to call the Kingsguard to remove her from the room, to order her banished to the black cells.
Instead, Rhaella looks up and right into Cersei’s wide eyes. Her purple eyes are red and swollen. Her eyes look like Father’s did after Mother died.
Queens should not cry, Cersei thinks.
“You are just like your mother,” Rhaella says, her voice soft. She looks like moonlight, quietly waiting for the sunlight to go away, not supposed to be seen yet. “She had so many dreams, too. Of power, of—of all the things she would do.”
Rhaella reaches across the small table and wraps a scrap of cloth around Cersei’s bleeding finger. She ties it in a tight knot. It feels nice. Cersei wishes it didn’t feel nice.
“Sweet child, if you do become Queen, you will see. You’ll think it will be one way, but then…then you will see how foolish it was to dream.”
Cersei’s mouth is still open.
Queen Rhaella takes Cersei’s hand in her slender hand. The Queen looks as though she’d feel cold, but her hands are hot, much too hot.
“There are better things in the world for you than this, sweet girl,” she says.
Cersei hurls her needlework at the table and bolts from the room.