Then I asked Tyrion to teach me how to play cyvasse. To my shame, I discovered that Joffrey had shown no interest in the game whatsoever—he had found it far too complicated and unbearably dull.
"Marriage has done you good," Tyrion remarked thoughtfully, then called out, "Pod, bring the board and pieces!"
Cyvasse, as I already knew, had been invented somewhere in the Free Cities and had only recently reached Westeros. It was rapidly gaining popularity, especially among the aristocracy. And if I learned to play it, it would be a small but pleasing addition to the new Joffrey's reputation.
Tyrion was a Lannister, and they—or perhaps I should now say we—always had the best of everything. That was why the board and pieces were made of precious metals and carved ivory.
Cyvasse turned out to be an engaging game that required patience, logical thinking, and the ability to plan several moves ahead.
In some ways, it resembled chess—more complex in certain aspects and simpler in others.
There were many different pieces: a king, a dragon, two elephants, heavy and light horsemen, spearmen, trebuchets, crossbowmen, catapults, and militiamen.
The board itself consisted of squares of three different colors.
Unlike chess, the initial placement of the pieces was not fixed. Players could choose their own formations. In addition, cyvasse included so-called "mountain squares," placed in predetermined positions. They could not be moved, and no piece could be set atop them.
Sometimes, before arranging the pieces, players would divide the board with a special screen so that neither could see the other's formation.
I learned to play in about an hour.
Tyrion proved a good teacher. I grasped all his explanations instantly. As expected, he crushed me in every match, making no allowances for my inexperience.
"We'll play again and talk about books," I promised as I left the room.
***
Cersei
Even when Robert still lived, Cersei had never considered herself a Baratheon. Yes, she bore the name of that house, and her children bore it as well. But she hated everything associated with her drunken, lecherous husband. In her heart, she had always remained a Lannister. And she raised her children the same way—carefully, relentlessly instilling contempt for the house that was not theirs and for the man they called their own father.
Now the Queen Regent sat in her private chambers upon a long, low couch.
Next to her, on a small table, servants had placed a tall vase of fruit brought all the way from the Summer Islands. On a golden tray lay a wedge of cheese freshly taken from the icehouse—now, in the warmth, it had begun to "sweat."
Gazing through her wine glass at the play of light, she reflected on the situation she had allowed herself to fall into.
Cersei missed Jaime desperately in her bed. She missed his hands, his body, his smile. She missed the sense of confidence he gave her and the feeling of unity and kinship that bound them. And she really longed to feel him inside her again.
But that fool Jaime had suddenly, out of nowhere, decided to take his vows seriously—devoting himself fully to the Kingsguard and his duties as the king's personal protector.
Damn Jaime! They had sex—roughly and passionately—on the very day he returned to King's Landing, dirty and exhausted.
But that had been so long ago! And it had not been nearly enough. And afterward, everything had gone wrong.
Jaime did not want to see—or could not see—how she suffered without him: without his support in life, in the Small Council, and in a thousand small everyday moments. And she, by nature, could not show him any of that. She was simply afraid to play any role other than that of the steely, authoritative Queen.
And all this time, deep inside, she had hoped—as any woman would—that Jaime would see and understand everything on his own…
But Jaime did not see. And it frankly infuriated her.
Of course, she could replace Jaime with someone else. Lancel had once performed that honorable role. He had tried very diligently in bed, but he lacked confidence—and lacked that edge of authority bordering on rudeness that she always found attractive in men. Now Lancel was recovering from serious wounds, and she could no longer rely on him.
There was also Ser Osmund Kettleblack. Cersei had flirted with him more than once, taming the knight and giving him a taste of hope.
But with Lord Tywin, Jaime, the Imp, the unexpectedly wise Joffrey all in the castle at the same time—plus the all-seeing Queen of Thorns, not to mention Varys—this was certainly not the moment to begin a new love affair.
Cersei feared neither the Seven nor any mortal soul. But she was not above a measure of caution. She understood perfectly well that a fleeting romance, satisfying nothing more than the voice of her flesh, might end very badly. And she had much to lose.
Thus she had to restrain her desires and wait—wait until Jaime understood something at last.
Something had been happening in the Red Keep these past weeks, and Cersei did not like it at all.
It had begun just before Joffrey's wedding. Her son changed dramatically and no longer behaved as he once had.
At first Cersei didn't really pay attention to such trifles —the boy had married, and therefore could afford to change something in his behaviour.
But as the days passed, she saw the new Joffrey with increasing clarity—attentive, calm, interested in things that had never held his attention before.
At times, she was genuinely surprised that others failed to notice how greatly their king had changed.
But it was simply impossible not to notice such things. Sometimes Cersei even felt a tremor of fear—it was as though she were looking at a complete stranger, not the son she remembered.
And although his behavior had become more reasonable and proper, this new Joffrey unsettled her simply because he was so very different.
Ser Osmund kept her informed of the king's new passions and changes in behaviour. He had last told her all the interesting news the previous evening.
And what she had heard only confirmed her suspicions.
A few days ago, Cersei had begun searching for reasons behind her son's sudden transformation. And, of course, she found them. Only she didn't realise that she had found something completely different from what she was looking for. She found what was obvious, what allowed her to calm her suspicions, rather than what she ought to have been searching for.
Cersei drew the most convenient conclusion: that bitch Margaery, who now bore the name Baratheon, was to blame for all of Joffrey's changes.
(End of chapter)
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