The cavernous silence of the Great Sept of Baelor felt suddenly fragile, as if the sheer spiritual density radiating from the infant in Cersei's arms might crack the massive crystal dome above them.
The High Septon took one stumbling step backward, the heavy gold-and-crystal woven fabric of his robes rustling loudly against the polished marble. Then another step. And a third. The blood had entirely drained from his florid, pudgy face, leaving him looking like a mound of spoiled dough.
He raised a trembling, fat finger, pointing it not at the Queen, but directly at the silent, burgundy-eyed child.
"You..." the High Septon stammered, his voice stripped of all its greasy, artificial honey. It was a raw, reedy sound of genuine terror. "You brought a cursed one into my sanctuary? A creature of dark magic, and you expect me to give a divine prophecy for this?"
A flash of pure, murderous indignation flared behind Cersei's green eyes. Her maternal instinct screamed at her to order the Kingsguard inside to separate the fat man's head from his shoulders for daring to insult her perfect son. But the cold, calculating lessons of Tywin Lannister anchored her rage. She needed this task done, no matter what.
Cersei smoothly covered the child's head once more with the crimson silk, shielding Yoriichi from the priest's panicked gaze.
"Do what you are asked to do, Your Holiness," Cersei commanded. Her voice was no longer a conspiratorial whisper; it was a chilling, absolute calm that cut through the scent of burning incense like a blade of ice. "Do not bother your mind with unnecessary things. You are a mouthpiece for the Crown. Speak the words."
The priest, no longer held hostage by the infant's paralyzing, ancient stare, managed to pull his scattered wits back together. His terror morphed rapidly into a defensive, pompous fury.
"What bother?!" he spat, taking a step forward, his multiple chins quivering with righteous indignation. "All of this is related! You bring a calamity, a marked abomination into the most holy sanctuary in Westeros, and you expect me to simply bow my head and listen to whatever madness you spout? I am the voice of the Seven!"
"We had an agreement not three minutes ago," Cersei reminded him, her tone dangerously soft. "If you back out on your words, the Andals will punish you, remember?"
The High Septon scoffed, a wet, ugly sound. His greed and his pride began to override his fear. "The Andals love me, Your Grace. That is why I wear this crystal crown, and that is why I stand here. What if I say no to everything we discussed? What if I walk out those doors and declare your child a demon spawn to the plaza? What can you do? You are a mere woman, Queen or not."
The atmosphere in the massive hall went dead silent. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic breathing of the infant—haaah—and the distant, muffled clatter of the city outside.
Cersei did not shout. She did not summon her guards. Instead, a slow, predatory smile curved the edges of her painted lips.
"The Crown funded your elevation so you could be of use," Cersei said slowly, her voice echoing softly off the marble pillars. "You were chosen because you were supposedly easy to control. Easy to talk to. But we all know what you do in the shadows of your so-called godly proclamations."
With the fluid, mesmerizing grace of a lioness, Cersei began to walk. She moved in a slow, deliberate circle around the High Septon.
Though she had covered his head, Yoriichi had squirmed just enough to peek his eyes out from the folds of the silk. His fathomless, calm gaze fixed on the priest once more, tracking him as Cersei moved. The combined effect of the Queen's lethal stalking and the infant's unnatural stare left the fat man rooted to the spot, sweating profusely.
"Your deeds are just as notorious as your belly, Your Holiness," Cersei purred chillingly, coming to stand just behind his right shoulder. "Stealing copper pennies from the begging bowls of the common people in the name of divine charity, only to hoard it as a mountain of gold in your private vaults. The indispensable, disgusting luxury you surround yourself with."
She continued her circle, her voice a silken whip. "And the whoring. Oh, the sneaky, pathetic pleasuring around the Street of Silk at night. Tell me, how many bastard children of the Faith are currently crawling through the gutters of Flea Bottom? Let us count your sins, shall we? Greed. Gluttony. Pride. Lust. I do not see the voice of the Seven standing before me. I see the most corrupt, filthy creature in all of Westeros."
The priest's face flushed a violent, mottled purple. His breathing grew ragged. Hearing his deepest, most guarded secrets listed off with such casual, venomous precision in the center of his own sept made him simultaneously nervous and furious. The deeds were as clear as daylight to this terrifying woman.
He forced a sneer onto his face, trying to project an authority he no longer felt.
"What now, Your Grace?" he barked, his voice echoing loudly. "Accusing the highest authority of the divine? And without a shred of evidence? There is a limit to foolishness, woman. Get out of here. Leave my sept before I call the Most Devout and have you kicked out into the streets. I will make your reputation ruin! I will see you shamed!"
Cersei stopped her circling, standing directly in front of him. She raised a perfectly sculpted golden eyebrow, thoroughly amused by his bluster.
"Kicked out?" Cersei asked lightly, as if discussing the weather. "By whom? Those weak, trembling little creatures you call Septons and Septas? The Faith Militant was disbanded by the Targaryens two centuries ago. You have no swords. I, however, have the Kingsguard stationed right outside those doors. I have two thousand Gold Cloaks absolutely loyal to the Crown. And behind me stands the full, devastating military might of House Lannister. Can your little, toothless Faith fight mine?"
The priest did not back down, his desperate pride flaring. "There are a million common people in this city and beyond! I control what they believe. If I ring the bells and signal them to march, if I declare you a heretic, your loyal knights will get crushed under the sheer weight of their righteous fury!"
Cersei looked at him with a mask of absolute, unadulterated disgust.
"Those same common people you speak of," she sneered, her lip curling. "They are sheep. If you show them a little blood and a little fear, they will always be docile to the Crown. They want bread and ale, not martyrdom. You think those pathetic, unwashed peasants will collectively rise up and revolt for a fat thief like you?"
"Do not underestimate the power of the common folk!" the priest barked, though a bead of nervous sweat dripped down his nose.