As incompetent and ineffectual as Uncle Kevan may be in most other circumstances, Cersei felt compelled to credit him for one skill: the man's a talented liar.

Kevan summoned both herself and Jaime to the borrowed solar he'd been using, the one located within the Tower of the Hand. "I've received a bit of troubling news from the watchman at the shore. Apparently, Lady Sansa attempted to board a ship bound east, but fell overboard only a short distance from the docks. It seems that the girl couldn't swim…" He hesitated for a moment, a solemn furrow etched across his brow.

A exhilarated flutter batted around Cersei's heart as she drew a thin inhale through her nose. She could see Jaime through her peripherals; his face blanched, his shoulders tightened, and her fingers and palms itched with a frantic yearning to touch him…

But in which way? Did she wish to rub comforting circles in his back as he mourned his newly-dead child bride? Did she wish to make him forget his pain by wrapping her hand around his cock and sucking blossoms onto his neck?

Or did she simply wish to dig her fingernails into the soft flesh between his eye sockets and that terrible beard and claw his face to ribbons?

"I'm sorry, Jaime," Kevan continued, his voice quiet and solemn. She finally turned her head to fully regard her twin; Jaime kept his eyes downcast, his jaw anchored and his lips just barely trembling as he whispered: "Thank you, Uncle."

And yet, for all the emotional distance now sprawled between herself and her brother, she hadn't completely lost the ability to discern the truth in the movements of his face. Every flick of the eyes a half-second too slow, every swallow in the throat just a bit too labored-

Deceivers, both of them.

"Where is the body?" she asked her uncle, striving to keep her tone as even as possible. "The poor child certainly deserves a proper funeral rite, don't you think?"

"Alas, it seems that she laid in the water for nearly a week after passing...there isn't really a body to bury anymore."

"A terrible shame." She pivoted on her heel and strode to Jaime, taking both his flesh and gold hands in hers and angling her head until he had no choice but to look her in the eyes. Rising up on her toes, Cersei bestowed a lingering kiss on her brother's cheek, just slightly too close to his lips. She could feel Uncle Kevan bristling from behind the desk, and his discomfort allowed a welcome bit of satisfaction to smooth the brambled edges of her irritation.

"My condolences, dear brother," she spoke in a low, alluring tone, acutely aware of the unwitting way in which Jaime canted his hips in her direction- not close enough to be truly indecent, but an instinctive merging of lines and spaces, quite exempt from rules or societal mores or even personal grievances.

"And what of...him?" She fired the next question in Uncle Kevan's direction, her voice laden with steely loathing.

"Who?" her uncle asked, brows furrowed with an exasperating confusion that prompted a deep and thorough eye-roll from the Queen Regent.

"I believe she's inquiring about our brother...rumors suggested that he and Sansa might be making their escape together," Jaime offered.

"Ah." Uncle Kevan shifted in his chair, clearly discomfited by the change in topic- and to think, I actually believed that he'd make an acceptable Hand of the King for Tommen. A fool's notion…

"I'm afraid that there have been no sightings of Tyrion. Not in the water, not on any ships. It seems that the tales of their epic dual escape have been vastly exaggerated."

Rage heated Cersei's blood in a manner that she couldn't quite appreciate- she didn't feel energized or inspired by her fury. Just tired. So very, very tired.

In an effort to mollify her own weary irritation, she flashed a cruel smile in Jaime's direction, her voice artificially dulcet when she spoke again: "Well, I suppose you can take some solace in that fact. She remained your faithful bride until the very end."

"Cersei." Kevan's tone contained chastisement, condemnation- she momentarily felt tempted to point out her uncle's gross impropriety and to demand an apology for the audacity of such a familiar address…

But before she could begin, Jaime spoke in a falsely-even timbre, "If I have your leave, Your Grace, I'd like to take a small contingent of soldiers and ride to Riverrun. Lord Tully deserves to receive word of his niece's passing in person...and while I'm in the Riverlands, I can garner a pledge of fidelity from the Tullys, securing the King's foothold in the region."

A cold, rough, sharp-edged scoff burst through Cersei's nostrils. "Oh, you fancy yourself a diplomat now? I suppose you think to appeal to Edmure Tully's sympathies as the grieving widower?"

A hot tinge of scarlet rose on Jaime's cheekbones, but Uncle Kevan swiftly interrupted- "I think it a fine idea, nephew. We can light candles in the sept tonight for Lady Sansa, and you can depart tomorrow morning…" A pause, then: "...if Her Grace approves, of course."

What are they plotting? Have they hidden the girl in Riverrun? As she'd certainly never receive a candid version from her fool relations, she'd need to discover other means of gleaning the truth...there must be someone, some loyal courtier still left in the Riverlands…

But when her gaze settled fully upon her brother, she felt the urgency dissipate. There'd be time for truth and consequences...right now, removing her twin from her sight took absolute precedence. A knot tightened in her throat as the gravity of that thought weighed at her heart and her mind and her soul-

"Go." The firmness of the syllable bolstered her spirits…

...but only for a moment.

The air between them quivered- she felt certain that even stupid Uncle Kevan could sense the tilt in the planet's orbit, the shift of the continent, the utter dismantling of all that had been and all that should be.

I can win the crown, the capital, the country...but what's it all worth, if I'm missing half of myself?

Jaime dipped his head in a curt nod, prompting Kevan to continue- "Then perhaps you should start arranging your belongings and assembling your group of travelers? With your leave, of course, Your Grace."

The afternoon sun spilled through the arched window behind Uncle Kevan, flooding the chamber with warm golden light- she watched as it shimmered in Jaime's silver-streaked fair hair, as it caught in the verdant irises of his eyes, as it contoured each fine curve and angle of his face. Even the play of the sunshine on that dreadful golden hand made for a pleasant picture. Each crevice of her body cried out for completion, imploring her to abandon this spiteful estrangement, to reclaim the union that so rightly belonged to her-

But instead, she waved her hand dismissively in her brother's direction, shifting her gaze to the side and vehemently avoiding his eyes as he bowed and exited.

A plaintive, shrieking wail at the back of her mind begged her to follow him, to throw her arms around his neck and press her cheek to his pulsepoint as she admitted her faults and implored him to trust and cherish her once again-

-until the piece of her consciousness still invested in queencraft took a hulking warhammer to the contrary fragment and smashed it into soft, powdery, inconsequential dust.

"Uncle," she began before Kevan had the opportunity to return to his ledgers and wordlessly request her absence, "have you considered the Crown's proposal yet?"

Kevan heaved a deep, congested breath through his nose. "I've been meaning to discuss this with you...but we've had little opportunity. Please take a seat, Your Grace."

A refusal tingled on the tip of her tongue, but in the interest of expedience, she lowered herself into the hard-backed chair opposite her uncle.

He continued in a peculiar tone halfway between resolute and hesitant: "The Hand of the King is an exalted position, and I'm honored by the offer. However, under the current circumstances, I'm afraid I must decline."

"Circumstances?" Cersei ground the edge of her voice against a proverbial whetstone, honing it into a vicious, deadly sharp.

"Some have...suggested that our young king may require a more experienced individual to hold the regency until he comes of age. I know how dearly you love your son, but when it comes to serving on councils and commanding men of noble bearing-"

"Men of noble bearing? Then you're saying that a woman cannot be a regent or an advisor to a powerful figure? Perhaps you ought to communicate that opinion to Olenna Tyrell; she buzzes in her son's ear louder than any wasp ever could."

"That isn't what I'm saying, niece." The furrows in his brow deepened, the deep grooves appearing nearly fathomless. Did Father ever look so old, so exhausted?

"I propose that you allow me to remove the burden of regency from your shoulders. I'll remain here as regent and appoint a new Hand of the King, and you'll have the liberty to do whatever you please. You could return to Casterly Rock, you could take a new husband...plenty of possibilities, Cersei."

Aside from those two dreary options, what possibilities are there? To take septa's vows?

"And who would you select as the King's Hand, Uncle?"

"Mace Tyrell seems the logical choice. The Queen's own father, with plenty of gold to fund the Crown's desired projects...he'll do the job well, I imagine."

Betrayal from all sides. From all directions. House Lannister festers and molds, and I've no means of draining the rot…

...except for one.

She knew not whether Jaime or Kevan released the news of Sansa's "passing" into the gossip maelstrom of the court, but mere hours after departing her uncle's company, she found herself the (increasingly annoyed) recipient of sympathies, condolences, and disingenuous apologies. The Queen Regent (still the Regent, for all of Uncle Kevan's traitorous suggestions to the contrary…) responded with indifferent nods and a quickening of her own pace down the corridor. Little as she herself believed in the girl's death, she hated the idea of her son receiving the news from an ill-informed servant or an idiot Kingsguard or, worst of all, from his slippery, devious, silver-tongued little wife.

The moment she turned the corner leading to Tommen's chambers, she realized with a heavy plummet of her stomach that she'd arrived too late. The sound of his weeping leaked through the heavy wooden door, spurring a clench of conflict in Cersei's heart; yes, she felt a desire to comfort and nurture...but a king must have more strength in his character, more steel in his soul.

She swung Tommen's bedroom door open and entered without knocking. The King huddled on a settee, his posture disgraceful and his face streaked with tears, as Margaery Tyrell wrapped her slim arms around him and stroked his burnt-gold hair. Cersei felt her nostrils filling with mucus and an unpleasant itch creeping into her throat- those dreadful kittens must be hiding somewhere nearby, their accursed hair clinging to each blanket, each pillow, each window hanging.

"Is it true, Mother? Is Sansa…"

The plaintive desperation in his light-green eyes, the distressed blush rising on his full cheeks- her fingers itched to rub circles into his back and stroke his soft curls, but the Tyrell girl's wispy hands already occupied those areas, the lean lines of her body creating a barricade between herself and her son, and her stomach wrenched with a keen desire to fire a cannon at the picturesque wall and smile as it crumbled, as it wasted away.

"Yes, my love," she told Tommen in as gentle a tone as she could muster. She didn't believe it, she'd never believe it without feasting her own eyes on the Stark girl's corpse...but the Tyrells already think me a fragile hysteric. No need to feed their suspicions.

Tommen curled his knees into his chest, and she found herself momentarily perplexed by his devastation- he hadn't wept with this fervor after Joff's passing, nor had he reacted so strongly to his grandfather's death. But that ginger blemish on House Lannister's radiant visage, the feral she-wolf cleverly marketing herself as a meek and cowering pup…

Her molars made hard contact with each other, beginning the scraping and grinding of past habits...with a quick shake of her head to release the tension, she continued to speak. "The septons will light candles to honor Sansa tonight after evening prayers. You ought to make an appearance."

"Of course," Margaery replied, leaning until her cheek landed in the nest of Tommen's curls. The boy diverted his gaze to his wife as he asked: "May I bring North Star to the sept, Margaery? She'll want to say goodbye."

An enraged prickle raced up and down Cersei's spine at the sight of her baby son asking another woman for permission- but Margaery only smiled, dropping a kiss on Tommen's brow before rising from the settee.

"We'll discuss that when I return, husband. But I ought to go to the sept now to see if the septons and septas need any assistance. Perhaps you can feed North Star a bit of the catnip Ser Loras brought you yesterday?"

Tommen seemed rather willing to be diverted, rummaging through a chest until he located the parcel of catnip and searching under his bed for the runty grey kitten. With the King suitably occupied, Margaery crossed to Cersei and placed a light hand on her arm, her smile only broadening when the Queen Regent flinched from her touch.

"Will you walk with me, Your Grace?"

Cersei's impulses urged her to shove the striving little pretender into the rough stone of the wall...but Tommen cared for the miserable wretch, and further alienation from her son wouldn't suit her one bit. And so she allowed Margaery Tyrell to slip her arm through the bend of Cersei's own and guide her from the King's chambers.

"I was terribly sorry to hear about Sansa...she was a very sweet girl." Margaery's voice rarely held genuine emotion of any sort, and a small shot of surprise rushed through Cersei's chest at the gleam of true regret in the girl's sweet brown eyes.

She only nodded her acceptance of Margaery's condolences, but the little Queen kept talking anyway: "I haven't had the chance to speak with Lord Jaime today...would you please extend our condolences to him, as well?"

Cersei couldn't tell whether Margaery used the royal plural or whether her collective pronoun referred to herself and Tommen as a single married unit- and she couldn't tell which possibility would enrage her more.

And somehow, the words just kept flowing- she's not nearly as clever as they all suppose, not with so little intuition-

"When the mourning period is over, I do hope that Lord Jaime knows that House Tyrell would be only too happy to help, should he wish to take another wife. I've several cousins, all fair and beautiful, of excellent health and of perfect childbearing age."

When she did finally deign to look the Tyrell girl full in the face, she spotted the trace of a wicked, spiteful smile on her rosebud lips- I'll see you wither and die on your bower, your petals moldering into a dull and dead brown as they fall down and down and down.

When that mercurial Qyburn first arrived at the Red Keep, armed with his peculiar assortment of tinctures and tonics (several of which he used to tend to Jaime's vile infected stump), she'd given him a dank little room chose to the maesters' wing..but not quite close enough to earn him respect from the other medical professionals in the castle.

But as she hovered in the doorway of Qyburn's grim enclosure, watching him swiftly browse his collection of potions and pull out a few choice vials, she wondered whether this bizarre foundling maester with his odd and unfathomable eyes might deserve a more prominent courtly position.

"The elixirs you desire...what are the ages and sizes of the recipients?"

The corners of her lips curled into a grin; she knew that Qyburn wouldn't push for names or specifics. He enjoyed mystery and intrigue, and he valued discretion too much to speak freely about his passion project: the devising of subtle, untraceable, dazzlingly-efficient poisons.

"The first is a man of five-and-sixty. About six feet tall...lean and healthy, but worn. Tired." Useless. Nothing but Tywin Lannister's sad, stunted shadow, always doomed to trail behind his better, stronger, cleverer brother.

"Very well, Your Grace. And the second?"

"A man, five-and-fifty. Perhaps five-and-a-half feet tall, very rotund. Well-fed." She allowed herself a momentary imagining: Mace Tyrell falling face-first into his pudding, his son's white cloak billowing behind him as he rushed to his father's aid (too late, of course), his daughter dissolving into hysterical tears-

A joyous giggle tickled at her throat, and she bit down hard on her inner cheeks to prevent it from bursting forth.

Qyburn pulled additional vials and arranged the glass containers in purposeful clusters on the dark-wood tabletop.

"Any others, my queen?"

And for a moment, she considered asking for a third potion, designed for a lissome, blossoming lass of seven-and-ten, a grasping little weed in need of extermination…

But these quick, painless poisons...they're better than she deserves.

And so she shook her head, offering Qyburn a gracious smile as she pivoted for the door.

"That will be all."