The great houses arrived throughout the week that followed, each delegation announcing itself with the particular combination of pageantry and military display that characterised the upper reaches of Westerosi aristocracy.
Cersei watched them from the balcony of the guest chambers that had been assigned to the royal party, a suite of rooms in the Sapphire Palace that was more luxurious than anything she had experienced outside of Casterly Rock. The furnishings were exquisite, the appointments were thoughtful, the service was impeccable, and every single detail had been calculated to communicate a message that Cersei heard with perfect clarity: House Tarth was not merely wealthy. House Tarth had taste. And taste, in the vocabulary of power, was considerably more threatening than mere gold.
The Tyrells arrived in strength, as she had expected. Lord Mace came with all three of his sons, Willas on his cane, Garlan in his armour, and Loras in his beauty, and with them Lady Margaery, who was sixteen and lovely and who carried herself with the knowing grace of a girl who understood precisely how her beauty could be used and was saving it for the right moment. Cersei watched Margaery descend the gangplank with the particular attention she reserved for potential rivals, and noted with irritation that the girl was even prettier than the reports had suggested.
Lord Renly arrived separately, as befitted his status as Master of Laws, and was received with the warmth of a man who was clearly a personal friend of the Tarth family rather than merely a political ally. He embraced Alexander with genuine affection, which Cersei noted, and he exchanged words with Brienne that suggested a familiarity born of years of regular contact, which she also noted.
The Stormlands lords came in force: Estermont, Buckler, Grandison, Dondarrion, and a dozen others, each one bringing retainers and families and the particular air of proprietary interest that came from being connected to a success they wanted credit for having recognised early. The Tarlys came from the Reach, Lord Randyll stiff and formal, his wife considerably warmer, and without their eldest son, who Cersei was informed was already on the island, having been fostered with House Tarth for the past year.
And from the Westerlands came her own uncle Kevan, representing House Lannister with a delegation that was considerably smaller than the Tyrells' but that carried the unspoken weight of the richest house in Westeros. With him came Tyrion, whom Cersei had not wanted to bring but whom their father had insisted upon, because Tywin Lannister believed that Tyrion's analytical mind was the best instrument available for assessing the true nature of Alexander Tarth's operation.
It was, by any measure, the most significant gathering of Westerosi nobility since the Greyjoy Rebellion. And it was happening not in King's Landing, not in Casterly Rock, not in Highgarden or Winterfell, but on a small island in the Stormlands that had been, seven years ago, a backwater that no one in the capital could have found on a map without assistance.
That fact alone told Cersei everything she needed to know about the scale of what Alexander Tarth had accomplished. And it told her something else as well: that an accomplishment of this scale, achieved by someone this young, was not natural. It was not the product of mere talent or hard work or fortunate circumstances. It was the product of a mind that thought in decades, planned in layers, and executed with a precision that bordered on the prescient.
She needed to understand that mind. And if she could not understand it, she needed to find a way to control it.
That evening, at the welcome feast held in the Sapphire Palace's great hall, Cersei watched Alexander Tarth move through the crowd with the fascinated attention of someone observing a predator in its natural habitat. The boy was everywhere and nowhere, present at every important conversation but never lingering long enough to seem attached to any faction. He spoke with Robert about hunting and received a promise to ride together during the Games. He spoke with Mace Tyrell about the perfume trade and received an invitation that was clearly not new. He spoke with her uncle Kevan about Lannisport commerce with the easy familiarity of someone who knew the numbers better than the Lannister representative who managed them.
And he spoke with Margaery Tyrell.
Cersei watched that particular conversation with the heightened attention she reserved for interactions that had romantic implications. Alexander and Margaery stood near the great windows overlooking the harbour, their heads close together, their voices low, their body language suggesting an intimacy that went beyond the political. Margaery was smiling, that particular Tyrell smile that managed to be simultaneously warm and calculating, and Alexander was listening to her with an attentiveness that was, Cersei judged, at least partially genuine.
They were beautiful together. That was the most irritating part. His dark Valyrian features against her warm Reach colouring, his stillness against her animation, his quiet against her brightness. They looked like a matched pair, and the court had clearly noticed, because the whispers were already beginning, the speculation about whether House Tyrell and House Tarth might find more to trade than flowers and perfume.
Cersei added the observation to her growing catalogue of concerns and moved on to the next.
Tyrion, who had been circulating with the particular intensity of a man on assignment, found her during a lull between courses.
"He is fascinating," Tyrion said, settling into the chair beside her with the careful, compensating movements that his body required. "I have spoken with him for perhaps fifteen minutes total, and I have the distinct impression that he learned more about me than I learned about him. That is not a common experience."
"What did you learn?"
"That he is considerably more intelligent than his reputation suggests, which is remarkable given that his reputation suggests he is the cleverest person in Westeros. That he has read extensively on subjects ranging from military history to agricultural economics to what I believe were Valyrian philosophical texts. That he uses humour the way other people use swords, precisely, deliberately, and always in service of a larger strategy." Tyrion paused. "And that he has violet eyes that make you feel as though he already knows what you are going to say before you say it."
"What do you make of the island?"
"I make of it that someone has spent seven years and an astonishing amount of money turning a middling fiefdom into something that looks disturbingly like a city-state. The infrastructure alone would have bankrupted most lordships. The military capability is... unexpected. And the commercial operation, the merchant fleet, the retail network, the trade agreements, it is not the work of a lord managing an estate. It is the work of someone building an empire."
"Can we use him?"
"That," Tyrion said, with the particular expression he wore when he was about to say something their father would not enjoy hearing, "is the wrong question. The right question is whether we can avoid being used by him. And I am not yet confident of the answer."
Cersei filed this assessment alongside everything else she had observed, and when the feast concluded and the guests retired to their chambers, she lay awake for a long time in the absurdly comfortable bed that the Sapphire Palace provided, staring at a ceiling that was painted with constellations in gold and silver leaf, and thinking about a boy with violet eyes who had built an island into a power.
"Jaime," she said the following morning, as another ship entered the harbour flying colours she did not immediately recognise. "Find out everything you can about the Tarth finances. Everything. Where the money comes from, where it goes, who holds it, and how much there is. I want to know whether this island is genuinely wealthy or merely spending beyond its means."
"You think they are in debt?"
"I think that no one builds an army and a navy and a wall on the revenues of an island lordship without borrowing heavily from someone. And I want to know who that someone is."
Jaime studied her for a moment, his green eyes sharp with the intelligence that most people forgot he possessed because they were too busy looking at his armour and his golden hair. "You are afraid of him."
"I am not afraid. I am cautious. There is a difference."
"Is there? In my experience, the difference between caution and fear is mostly a matter of vocabulary."
"Then your vocabulary is deficient." Cersei turned back to the harbour. "Do what I asked. And be discreet."
"I am always discreet."
"No. You are always beautiful. Discretion is something else entirely."
* * *
The opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games took place on a morning so clear and bright that it seemed as though the weather itself had been recruited to serve House Tarth's purposes.
The Sapphire Palace had been transformed for the occasion. Its central courtyard, a vast open space bordered by the seven themed wings that made the palace famous, had been converted into an arena that could seat thousands. Tiered seating rose on all sides, draped in banners of every attending house, with the royal box positioned at the northern end, where the King and Queen could see and be seen with maximum theatrical effect. The common folk had been admitted to the upper galleries, a decision that Cersei found populist and therefore suspicious, and they filled those galleries with an enthusiasm that the nobility below mimicked with considerably less sincerity.
Prince Joffrey sat in the royal box between his parents, dressed in Baratheon gold and Lannister crimson, his expression oscillating between boredom and the particular brand of petulance that emerged when events were not sufficiently focused on him. It was his nameday celebration, technically, but even Joffrey could sense that the true subject of the festivities was not the prince but the island, not the birthday but the spectacle, and the spectacle had been designed by someone who understood that the way to diminish a prince was to surround him with wonders that made his presence seem incidental.
The opening ceremony began with a procession of athletes and competitors, drawn from across the realm and organised by the events they would contest. There were knights in armour for the joust and the melee. There were archers and wrestlers and riders. There were swimmers and runners, common men and women competing alongside minor nobility in events that required no horse and no expensive equipment, only skill and determination. It was unprecedented, and the crowd, both noble and common, responded with an enthusiasm that made Cersei's teeth ache.
Alexander Tarth stood at the centre of the arena and delivered a welcome speech that was brief, elegant, and perfectly calibrated to honour the prince, flatter the king, and position House Tarth as the generous host of an event that belonged to the entire realm rather than to any single family. He spoke with the quiet authority of someone who did not need to raise his voice to be heard, and the crowd listened with the particular attention that people gave to speakers who said things worth hearing.
"The Olympic Games," he said, his voice carrying across the arena with remarkable clarity, "are not merely a celebration of Prince Joffrey's nameday, though we are deeply honoured to host that celebration. They are a celebration of excellence itself. Of the human capacity to strive, to compete, to push beyond the boundaries of what was thought possible and discover what lies beyond. Every competitor here, whether knight or commoner, whether man or woman, represents the best of what Westeros has to offer. And in honouring their excellence, we honour the realm itself."
The crowd roared. Robert beamed. Joffrey looked irritated, which was, Cersei suspected, precisely the response Alexander had intended.
The ceremony continued with a parade of delegations, each house presenting its competitors with the kind of theatrical flair that Cersei associated with the Reach rather than the Stormlands. There were acrobats and musicians, a display of horsemanship by Reach knights that drew thunderous applause, and a demonstration of archery by the Tarth Maiden Guardians that was both aesthetically striking and quietly terrifying in its precision. The guardians shot in unison, twelve arrows released as one, each striking the centre of a target at a range that would have challenged most of the realm's best archers working individually.
Cersei watched the demonstration with the specific attention of someone evaluating combat capability. These were not display troops. These were warriors who happened to be female, trained to a standard that most male garrisons in the realm could not match. The political implications were considerable. If Brienne of Tarth could build one company of this quality, she could build five. And five companies of soldiers this capable would constitute a force that could not be casually dismissed by anyone, regardless of the gender of the soldiers who comprised it.
Prince Joffrey's nameday was formally honoured during the ceremony, with gifts presented from each attending house and a toast led by the King that was enthusiastic if somewhat slurred by mid-morning wine. The prince received the attention with the graceless condescension of a boy who believed the world existed to service his needs, accepting gifts without gratitude and compliments without courtesy. Cersei watched her son with the complicated love of a mother who knew, in the most private chambers of her heart, that the child she had raised was not entirely what she had hoped he would be.
Alexander Tarth presented the prince with a sword. Not just any sword, but a masterwork of Tarth steel, its blade folded and tempered using techniques that the island's metallurgists had developed, its hilt wrapped in sapphire-studded leather, its scabbard engraved with the Baratheon stag in silver and gold. It was, by any standard, a magnificent gift, and even Joffrey's studied indifference cracked slightly when he drew the blade and felt its balance.
"It is beautiful," Joffrey said, and it was one of the few times Cersei had heard genuine appreciation in her son's voice.
"It was forged on Tarth, Your Grace, by craftsmen who have spent years perfecting the art. The steel is layered, similar in technique to Valyrian methods, though we make no claims to match that ancient craft. It is, however, the finest blade our forges can produce, and we present it with the hope that it will serve the prince as well as his father's warhammer once served the realm."
The reference to Robert's martial past was perfectly judged. Robert grinned. Joffrey, for once, seemed genuinely pleased. And the assembled lords noted, as Alexander surely intended them to note, that Tarth could produce weapons of exceptional quality. In a world where steel determined the outcome of arguments, that was a statement of capability as much as generosity.
* * *