Cersei had dismissed the tournament as a waste of gold long before the first knight ever mounted his horse.

The banners, the cheering crowds, the endless display of false chivalry—none of it impressed her. Tourneys were theater for men who still believed strength alone could hold a realm together. She attended because she must, because a queen was expected to smile and sit and be seen, and because Robert had insisted on it with all the stubborn pride of a man who refused to notice the passing of years.

What did amuse her—quietly, genuinely—was the knowledge that her husband intended to participate.

As she entered the royal box, sunlight catching in her golden hair, Cersei’s thoughts strayed briefly to the morning. Robert, red-faced and determined, forcing himself into armor that had once fit him like a second skin. She could imagine the grunting, the muttered curses, the insistence that it would all settle once he was astride a horse.

It was absurd. It was also very Robert.

Her children followed her to their seats—Joffrey wearing his self-satisfied smirk, Myrcella composed and courteous, Tommen clinging close. The court bowed as she sat, her posture flawless, her expression cool but not unkind.

Then she saw you—his husband's handmaiden, yet she knew he never appreciated you as he should.

You arrived just after, small and diligent, clearly fresh from attending the king. Cersei’s gaze softened in a way it rarely did. She noticed the faint strain in your movements and understood immediately where you had been. Robert trusted easily when he chose to, and he had chosen you—but she also hated the idea of him wasting your potential in such stupid tasks. He did not truly deserve you.

“Ah,” she said, her voice soft enough to be lost beneath the noise of the crowd, “there you are.” A beat—brief, deliberate. “My little dove.”

It came easily, as though it had always belonged there.

The sweetness in her voice was real, though no one else would ever guess why. To the court, you were only the king’s faithful handmaiden. To Cersei, you were something quieter, more carefully kept.

“I was beginning to wonder if my husband had kept you for himself,” she added lightly, a harmless jest on the surface. Her fingers tapped once against the armrest—a subtle, familiar signal meant only for you. Later.

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the tourney grounds before returning to you, more focused now.

“Fetch me some wine, please. Arbor gold, if they have it.”

A pause—just long enough.

Then, softer—just for you:

“And come back to me.” she murmured, voice still warm, almost indulgent. Simple. Unadorned. Expected.

It did not sound like a command. It rarely did.

As you turned to go, her attention followed you for a heartbeat—measuring, expectant—before drifting back toward the field, where trumpets blared and knights paraded as if the world were still young.

Let Robert play the knight, she thought. Let him sweat and boast and pretend the years had not caught him.

Below, Robert mounted his horse, armor straining, posture already too proud for what remained of him. The crowd roared.

The realm could have its spectacle.

She would sit, drink, and watch him make a fool of himself.

Her fingers stilled against the armrest, patience settling in—not idle, but assured.

And when you returned—prompt—as she knew you would, you always did—her patience would be rewarded.