The heavy oak doors to Cersei Lannister's private solar in Maegor's Holdfast closed with a soft thud, sealing the two of them inside a chamber that smelled of beeswax candles, rosewater, and the faint metallic tang of old power. Golden light from a dozen flickering candles danced across walls hung with crimson-and-gold tapestries depicting roaring lions. A massive bed dominated one corner, its silk sheets still rumpled from the night before. On a low table near the window sat a half-empty flagon of Arbor gold and two crystal goblets.
Cersei Lannister, Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and still called the most beautiful woman in Westeros, lounged on a velvet chaise in a thin golden silk gown that clung to every curve. Her bare feet were tucked beneath her, golden hair loose and slightly mussed. But her emerald eyes burned with the kind of impatience that could make grown men sweat.
She had summoned Vito Corleone the moment the first ravens arrived from the North.
Robb Stark was dead.
The Young Wolf—the boy who had defied the Iron Throne, crushed Lannister armies at Whispering Wood and Oxcross, and crowned himself King in the North—was gone. Killed at the Twins during what the singers were already calling the Red Wedding. His young wife had been murdered beside him. And word had just reached King's Landing that the two Stark boys left behind at Winterfell—Bran and Rickon—had been slaughtered by Theon Greyjoy during his sack of the castle.
That left only one legitimate heir to Winterfell.
Sansa Stark.
The pretty little bird who had once dreamed of marrying a golden prince now held the keys to the entire North in her slender hands. And Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord of Casterly Rock, had already moved to seize them.
Just days earlier, at the subtle urging of Petyr Baelish, Tywin had ordered Sansa married to his own son—Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. The dwarf. The man whose name alone made half the court sneer.
If Tyrion and Sansa produced a child, that child would carry both Stark and Lannister blood. Winterfell would fall into Lannister hands without another sword being drawn. Roose Bolton could keep his empty title of Warden of the North for now; the real power would belong to Casterly Rock. It was the kind of cold, elegant political move that had made Tywin Lannister a legend.
And Cersei hated every bit of it.
She hated that her father had arranged it without consulting her. She hated that her own son—King Joffrey—had already been promised to Margaery Tyrell, the Rose of Highgarden. She hated that she herself had been promised to Margaery's brother, Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. A second marriage for the Queen Regent. In any other kingdom it would have been scandalous. Here it was just another chess piece on Tywin's board.
Petyr Baelish was already on his way to the Vale to marry Lysa Tully and claim the Eyrie through her sickly son. Once that was done, the Vale would fall into line as well. Tywin was weaving a net across half of Westeros with nothing but marriages and promises. No extra armies. No extra gold spent on campaigns. Just bloodlines and cold calculation.
Corleone stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the Queen Regent with the same calm he might use while studying a patient on an operating table. He had heard the full story from Jaime on the ride over. Now he understood why Cersei looked ready to chew through iron.
She wanted out of the Loras marriage.
And she wanted Corleone to make it happen.
Cersei finally broke the silence, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"Have you made up your mind, Vito Corleone? Or are you just going to stand there like a statue all night?"
Corleone turned slowly. The candlelight caught the hard line of his jaw and the faint scar above his left eyebrow—the one he'd earned in the Riverlands. He gave her a small, polite bow, nothing more.
"I'm listening, Your Grace."
"Listening?" Cersei swung her legs off the chaise and stood. The thin silk whispered against her skin as she crossed the room barefoot. She stopped just close enough that he could smell the rosewater on her throat. "I didn't summon you here to listen. I summoned you because Jaime swore you could solve problems. Any problems."
She jabbed a finger at his chest. "My father has sold me to the Tyrells like a prize mare. Loras Tyrell. A boy who'd rather fuck his own sister's memory than a woman. And you stand there like this is some tavern debate."
Corleone didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head, studying her the way a physician studies a fever.
"Your Grace, I understand the situation perfectly. Robb Stark is dead. Sansa inherits Winterfell. Tywin wants Tyrion to plant Lannister seed in her belly so the North becomes ours by right of blood. Meanwhile he's married you off to Loras to seal the Reach. And Petyr Baelish is off to claim the Vale through Lysa Tully. Very neat. Very Tywin."
Cersei's eyes narrowed. "Then fix it. Break the betrothal. I don't care how. Make Loras refuse. Make the Faith object. Make the Tyrells choke on their own roses. I want out."
Corleone let the silence stretch. He could feel the desperation rolling off her in waves. This wasn't the cold, calculating queen who had ordered Ned Stark's head taken. This was a woman who had been outmaneuvered by her own father and hated every second of it.
He walked to the table, poured himself a small measure of Arbor gold, and sipped it slowly before answering.
"Breaking a royal betrothal is easy, Your Grace. I could give you twenty different ways before the sun rises. Poison a witness. Spread a rumor that Loras prefers men. Have one of my men in Flea Bottom start a whisper campaign that the Tyrells are secretly backing Stannis. Or simply make Loras… unavailable for a few weeks. Accidents happen in King's Landing."
Cersei's lips curved in a hungry smile. "Good. Do it."
"But first," Corleone said, setting the goblet down, "we talk about price."
The smile vanished.
"Price?" She laughed, short and bitter. "You're standing in the Queen Regent's solar because my brother vouched for you. Because my father gave you that ridiculous title—Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs. You think I can't pay?"
Corleone met her gaze without blinking.
"You're a Lannister, Your Grace. But so is Tywin Lannister. And right now Tywin holds the real power. He made me. He can unmake me with one word. Helping you cross him is… expensive."
Cersei stepped closer. The candlelight turned her hair into molten gold. She placed one hand on his chest, fingers tracing the line of his collar.
"Name your price, Vito Corleone. Gold? Lands? A knighthood? I can give you all of it and more. Or…" Her voice dropped, low and velvet. "Something else."
Corleone looked down at her hand, then back at her face. No heat in his eyes. Just calculation.
"Gold I can get from the fighting pits. Lands I can take in Flea Bottom. A knighthood from Joffrey would be worth less than the paper it's written on. And as for the rest…" He gently removed her hand. "I've seen what happens to men who play that game with you, Your Grace. They end up dead or wishing they were."
Cersei's face flushed with anger. "Then why are you here? Why waste my time?"
Corleone smiled—the same calm, dangerous smile he'd worn when he told Tyrion he was going to make him an offer he couldn't refuse.
"Because I like you, Your Grace. And because I respect your father. But respect only goes so far when the stakes are this high. So before I give you the how… we talk about the how much."
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
"You gotta add money, Your Grace. A lot of it. And maybe a few other things I haven't decided on yet. Otherwise…" He shrugged. "I'm just another man who can't afford to cross Tywin Lannister."
Cersei stared at him for a long moment, chest rising and falling. The anger was still there, but underneath it something else flickered—respect, maybe even a spark of genuine interest.
She turned away, poured herself a full goblet of wine, and drank half of it in one swallow.
"Fine," she said at last. "Name your number. But it better be worth it."
Corleone picked up his own goblet again and raised it in a small toast.
"Oh, it will be, Your Grace. I promise you that."
Outside the window, the lights of King's Landing glittered like a thousand hungry eyes. Inside the solar, two predators circled each other in the candlelight.
And somewhere in the city, the Black Hand was already moving.