"Yes, yes. The power to tuck their tails between their legs and bow their heads to whoever holds the sharpest steel," Cersei dismissed with a wave of her free hand. She took a step closer, invading his personal space, her voice dropping to a demonic whisper. "But if you have such absolute confidence in your flock... then I will use them against you."
The High Septon blinked, confused and terrified by the dark glee in her eyes.
"I will spread the tales of your deeds across the entirety of Westeros," Cersei promised, her words a lethal poison.
"I will hire every mummer, every bard, and every town crier from Dorne to the Wall. The people do not care if rumors are strictly true or not; they only care if they are scandalous. They will believe it because they already hate how fat you are while they starve. And when they believe it, they will not demand my son's head. They will demand yours."
She let the reality of her threat sink into his fat, sweating face. "They need entertainment, Your Holiness. And frankly, watching the High Septon dragged through the mud by the very flock he robbed... who could provide greater entertainment than that? Right?"
The priest stuttered, his jaw working uselessly. He couldn't find a word to counter her. In his heart of hearts, he knew she was absolutely right. The Faith only believed in power. He had no army. If the Crown turned the mob against him, the Gold Cloaks would stand by and laugh as he was torn to pieces.
Yet, as he looked down and saw Yoriichi's calm, unblinking eyes staring at him from beneath the silk, that visceral, spiritual terror gripped him again. It was a monster. He could feel it in his marrow.
He gritted his teeth, his fear of the divine momentarily overriding his fear of the Queen.
"No!" the High Septon shouted loudly, his voice cracking. "I will not do it! I will not anoint a curse! Do whatever you want, Cersei Lannister! Spread your rumors! Let us see who the Gods favor!"
Cersei's eyes narrowed. She was genuinely surprised. She had dismantled his political power, his reputation, and his physical safety, yet the fat coward was still clinging to a sudden, inconvenient burst of religious stubbornness because he was so terrified of her baby.
Fine, she thought. If he will not bend to the Lion, he will bend to the Dragon.
Cersei turned her back on him. She began to walk slowly toward the massive bronze doors, her posture relaxed, her steps echoing sharply in the silence.
"Very well," she said, her voice chillingly casual. "Then be prepared for the night, Your Holiness. We can never truly say when the Gods might decide to take their favorite servant's life. A sudden illness. A tragic slip down the stairs."
She paused halfway to the door, looking over her shoulder with a completely deranged, terrifying smile.
"Hmm... next time, I will definitely pass your inheritance to a Septon directly under Lannister coin. Someone much thinner. Much more obedient." She turned her head forward again, her voice floating back to him like a dark melody.
"Oh... and wildfire will be good, too. It burns so hot, doesn't it? No evidence. No victims left to identify. It will be quite fun to watch an old, drafty building get blown to brilliant, green bits in the middle of the night."
The High Septon's breath hitched so violently he nearly choked on his own tongue. His face, already pale, turned the color of old parchment.
As a highly influential man who had navigated the treacherous waters of the capital for decades, he knew the darkest whispers of the Red Keep. He knew about the Mad King's antics. He knew the terrifying truth that jars of volatile, apocalyptic wildfire still existed in the secret tunnels directly beneath the Great Sept of Baelor.
Ser Jamie Lannister had warned him and promised that the Alchemists' Guild would remove it, but the Crown had been lazy, and the caches were still there, ticking time bombs in the dark.
He realized with sudden, absolute clarity that this was the greatest weakness the Lannisters held over him. This psycho woman, holding a demonic child, would absolutely not hesitate to ignite the cache beneath his feet just to satisfy her pride and secure her son's throne.
He was sweating profusely now, his lavish robes sticking to his back.
Cersei reached the doors. She raised her hand, her knuckles hovering just an inch from the bronze to knock for the Kingsguard.
"Fine!" the priest shrieked, his voice echoing hysterically through the dome. "Fine! Stop! I will do it! I will call the assembly! I will declare the prophecy of Prince Yorion! Just... just do not do that madness, Your Grace. I beg of you."
Cersei's hand paused in mid-air. She slowly turned around. The crazy, euphoric look of total victory danced in her emerald eyes. She laughed, a high, musical sound that held no warmth whatsoever.
"Next time, be humble to your Queen," Cersei warned, her voice dripping with sadistic satisfaction. "Or you cannot know when you might get blown to bits."
With a sharp rap, she knocked on the bronze. The doors immediately groaned open, revealing the towering, armored forms of her Kingsguard. She swept past them without a backward glance, leaving the broken, terrified High Septon trembling alone in the shadows of his own sanctuary.
The carriage ride back to the Red Keep was incredibly smooth.
Inside the velvet-lined cabin, Cersei sat comfortably, crossing her legs with feline elegance. She pulled the blankets fully away from Yoriichi's face, adoringly gazing down at him. The infant prince was perfectly awake, his deep burgundy eyes curiously tracking the sway of the carriage tassels and the shifting light pouring through the window slates.
Cersei felt an intoxicating, euphoric sense of absolute victory. She had secured his future. She had broken the Faith. No one would ever dare question her divine son now.
She gently stroked the red-tipped hair, her mind drifting back to the lethal threat that had finally shattered the High Septon's resolve. Wildfire.
How had she known the exact pressure point to press? It had not been common knowledge.
Two days ago, when she received the encrypted raven from her father, Tywin had mentioned the political necessity of the Faith. But at the very bottom of the scroll, Tywin had added a single, speculative postscript: Your brother knows a secret regarding his true reason for slaying the previous king. I suspect it involves the Alchemists. Use it if the fat man resists.
It was just a speculation on Tywin's part, a father guessing at the unspoken horrors his son carried. But Cersei's sharp instincts had immediately realized her father was right. There was a massive, dark secret Jaime had been hiding beneath his golden armor for years.
So, two nights ago, she had decided to extract it.
She remembered how Jaime had looked that night—broken, desperate, entirely starved for her affection after days of being locked out of her chambers. He had been a man dying of thirst, and she held the only cup of water.
What she had done to him that night in the dark, and exactly how she had shattered his defenses to make the Kingslayer spill his greatest, most treasonous secret... that was a memory that still made her smile in the dim light of the carriage.