Chapter 76 – The True Queen
"What exactly is it you want?"
Inside the great sept, Cersei Lannister's emerald eyes locked sharply onto Ser Bonifer Hasty, her golden brows arching ever so slightly.
This supposed holy man had just dropped a revelation so explosive it could burn the whole capital — and yet he hadn't gone to the King, nor to the Small Council. Instead, he had come to her.
That, more than anything, made her suspicious.
A landed knight turned priest, claiming devotion to the Seven, should have been praying and tending candles — not whispering treason in the ear of the Lannister heiress.
Clearly, Bonifer Hasty was not as simple as he seemed.
Cersei studied him in silence. As her father's daughter, she had been raised to recognize ambition — to sense it like blood in the water. Even as a child, she had mimicked the lions of Casterly Rock, sharpening her claws in secret while pretending to purr.
And now, looking into Bonifer's pious, self-righteous face, she saw it — the faintest flicker of something familiar.
Hunger.
Not for flesh, nor gold — but for power.
And when she caught that gleam in his eyes, she knew.
This man wanted more than faith.
As if reading her thoughts, Bonifer smiled faintly, the candlelight gleaming against the cold metal of his septon's chain. His voice dropped to a reverent whisper:
"I wish to restore the rightful line — and place Prince Duncan Targaryen's son upon the Iron Throne."
Boom.
A crack of thunder rolled outside, rattling the stained-glass windows. Cersei flinched — only slightly — but her heart skipped all the same.
Had she heard him right?
"You want to usurp the throne?" she breathed, her voice tight, her chest rising and falling as she fought for composure. "Do you even understand what you're saying? That's treason."
Bonifer chuckled softly.
"No, Lady Cersei," he said, the calm of a man already condemned. "Not treason. Restoration."
He stepped closer to the altar, the shadows of the Seven flickering across his face.
"Prince Duncan was King Aegon the Fifth's eldest son — gallant, wise, and beloved. His followers once stretched from the Wall to the Summer Sea. A hero to the realm."
Cersei's lips twisted. "And he gave up his claim for a common woman."
"Yes," Bonifer agreed evenly. "He did. For love. But his younger brother — Jaehaerys — was weak. Sickly. Dead within three years."
He paused, lowering his voice.
"And as for the king we have now…"
Bonifer's mouth curled into a faint sneer.
"Aerys was once promising. Now he's a madman. A king who let himself be kidnapped by a mere lord — held prisoner for half a year!"
He leaned closer, his tone dripping with scorn.
"Had it not been for Prince Duncan's son— your Lance Lot 'The Fearless' as the bards call him — Aerys would already be a corpse rotting in a cell."
Bonifer straightened, his mockery fading into solemn conviction.
"He is not a true king."
From his sleeve, he drew a heavy tome bound in black leather — its title glimmering in gold leaf:
The Seven-Pointed Star.
He flipped it open, letting the candlelight spill across a passage, and read aloud:
"A brother shall not lay with his sister.
A father shall not lay with his daughter.
A mother shall not lay with her son.
For such unions breed abominations despised by the gods."
He looked up, eyes burning.
"The King and his Queen defy the will of the Seven every night. Their children are born of sin — cursed blood unfit to rule."
"Please," Cersei scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "They're Targaryens. They've been marrying each other for centuries. It's how they keep their blood pure — and their dragons strong."
Yet, even as she said it, a fleeting image crossed her mind — Jaime.
Her twin. Her mirror.
The only person who had ever truly seen her.
They had played together as children, whispering dangerous games neither dared name. Even now, after years apart, she knew — if one of them reached out, the other would never pull away.
And what of it? she thought bitterly.
Why should the Targaryens have the privilege of sin, while the lions of Casterly Rock were bound by chains of shame?
A faint smirk touched her lips. Lions do not care for the opinions of sheep.
But Bonifer wasn't smiling.
"No, my lady," he said softly — and now there was fervor in his eyes. "You do not understand. The Seven will not bow to kings. The gods will not endure this corruption any longer."
He lifted the holy book high, its golden edges catching the flicker of the candlelight like divine fire.
"The Faith will not yield to royal sin!"
His voice rose, echoing through the vast sept.
"Through centuries of blood and fear, kings have tried to silence our holy war — but as long as the Seven endure, righteous rebellion will rise again! I will not stand idle while incestuous monsters pollute the throne and doom the realm!"
"We will call another holy crusade — and crown a pure prince as the true King of Westeros!"
Cersei sighed, folding her arms.
"You really are mad, aren't you?"
She tilted her head, the candlelight dancing across her flawless face.
"Your holy war is your business, Septon. If you wish to die swinging a sword for your gods, by all means — gather your brothers, march on the Red Keep, and pray the Kingsguard take pity on you before they cut you down."
She turned to leave, her golden hair shimmering as she moved.
"The Faith Militant was disbanded two hundred years ago. You'd need more than prayers to fight a king."
But behind her, under the shadow of the Seven, Bonifer's voice rang out once more — calm, clear, and utterly sure.
"And what of you, Lady Cersei?"
She stopped mid-step.
"Do you not wish to be queen?"
The words hung in the air like incense — sweet, heavy, and dangerous.
Slowly, she turned her head, meeting his gaze once more.
And though she said nothing, the faint curve of her lips told him everything he needed to know.
Queen.
The single word carried a strange, dangerous magic.
Cersei's graceful steps faltered; her heel clicked sharply against the marble floor as she froze mid-stride. Slowly, almost involuntarily, she turned back.
Bonifer's smile deepened.
"Yes," he said softly, "the queen."
"The title your father once sought for you — and was denied."
He stepped closer, his shadow stretching long beneath the flickering light of the sept's candles.
"Lord Tywin petitioned the King more than once to betroth you to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Every time, His Grace refused."
Bonifer's tone turned scornful, edged with venom.
"Not only that — he rejected every noble house that dared to ask for Rhaegar's hand in marriage. When Lord Rickard Stark pressed the matter, the King cut off his thumb to 'teach him humility.'"
Cersei's eyes widened. "He… what?"
"And that is not all," Bonifer continued, his voice low and deliberate. "Just weeks ago, Aerys sent Lord Steffon Baratheon across the Narrow Sea — to seek a bride for Rhaegar, one of pure Valyrian blood. A foreign girl. An outsider."
The words struck Cersei like cold steel.
Her breath caught, the emerald of her eyes flashing with fury.
That wretched witch had promised her — promised her that she would marry a king, that she would wear a crown of gold and rule beside him.
And now? Now she was being traded for convenience while some pale foreign girl was groomed for her throne?
Her hands clenched at her sides. If she could not be queen… what had all the years in King's Landing been for?
The distance from Jaime. The empty smiles. The endless games.
All for nothing?
"Do not despair, Lady Cersei," Bonifer said smoothly, as though sensing the storm rising behind her eyes. "You may not be able to marry Rhaegar… but another path has opened to you."
He paused — then spoke the name with deliberate weight:
"Rhaeseryon Targaryen."
Cersei blinked, confused for an instant — then the realization struck her.
Lance Lot.
Bonifer's smile widened, serpentine and patient.
"If we raise him to the throne — the hidden son of Prince Duncan, rightful heir to the blood of Aegon the Fifth — he will have no power base, no allies, no family to bind him. The only path to legitimacy will be through marriage."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a whisper thick with temptation:
"And who better than the daughter of the richest, most powerful lord in the Seven Kingdoms?"
"Who better than you, Cersei Lannister?"
The air in the sept seemed to tighten. The thunder outside rolled again, low and distant, like the growl of a waking lion.
Each word from Bonifer's mouth sank deep into her mind, feeding a hunger she had long tried to hide — the same hunger that had always burned behind her beauty, behind her ambition.
To be adored was never enough.
To be feared — never enough.
Only power could fill her.
Bonifer could see it in her eyes now — the spark he had been waiting for.
And so, he pressed on, his voice swelling with fervor:
"Since Aerys's return, the King's authority has fallen to its lowest ebb in centuries. His madness grows by the day, and his trust in your father, Lord Tywin, has all but crumbled."
He lifted his arms, as though invoking the gods themselves.
"This — this is the hour the Seven have granted us! When chaos shatters the old order, the faithful will rise! With the right moment… with your hand guiding it…"
His voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper.
"We reveal the truth of Prince Rhaeseryon's birth, seize control of the Red Keep, and before the court even stirs, a new king will be crowned."
And then, with sudden, fanatical intensity, he thrust his arm out, finger pointing straight at her — the gesture almost ceremonial, almost holy.
"And you, Cersei Lannister—"
His words thundered through the empty sept.
"You shall become the most exalted woman in all the Seven Kingdoms."
"The True Queen."
Cersei said nothing.
Her lips parted slightly — not in shock, but in thought.
A queen. Not merely a lady, or a daughter, or a pawn in her father's endless game.
The Queen.
The promise she had once been given — now resurrected by a mad, ambitious priest.
For a heartbeat, she almost laughed.
And then, across the sea of candlelight, she met Bonifer's gaze.
In that silent moment, both of them understood.
She would not dismiss him this time.
Not entirely.
A storm was coming — and lions, after all, had always known how to hunt in the dark.
---
Meanwhile, in the King's bedchamber, the old Maester gasped and kicked helplessly as Ser Lance Lot held him suspended in the air.
Pycelle's mind was spinning.
How did he know?
The boy shouldn't have — couldn't have — known the secrets of milk of the poppy. That was alchemical knowledge restricted to the archmaesters of Oldtown!
Even with all his years, Pycelle could barely breathe. His face turned crimson, hands clawing weakly at the knight's arm as he croaked:
"S–Ser… let me down…!"