His eyes are closed forever now, she thought, but my eyes are green as well. It is my look they will flinch from now, my frown that they must fear. I am a lion too.
It was gloomy within the sept, with the sky so grey outside. If the rain ever stopped, the sun would slant down through the hanging crystals to drape the corpse from head to heel in rainbows. The Lord of Casterly Rock deserved rainbows, Cersei thought. He had been a great man. I shall be greater, though. A thousand years from now, when the maesters write about this time, you shall be remembered only as Queen Cersei’s sire.
“Mother.” Tommen tugged her sleeve. “What smells so bad?”
My lord father. “Death.” She could smell it too; a faint whisper of decay that made her want to wrinkle her nose. Cersei paid it no mind. The seven septons in the silver robes stood behind the bier, beseeching the Father Above to judge Lord Tywin justly. When they were done, seventy-seven septas gathered beneath the statue of the Mother and began to sing to her for mercy. Tommen was fidgeting by then, and even the queen’s knees had begun to ache. She glanced up at Jaime. Her twin stood there as if he had been carved from stone, and would not meet her eyes.
On the benches behind him her uncle Kevan knelt with his thick shoulders slumped, his son beside him. Lancel looks worse than Father. Only seventeen, her cousin might have passed for seventy: grey-faced, gaunt, with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and hair as white and brittle as chalk. How can Lancel be among the living when Tywin Lannister is dead? Have the gods taken leave of their wits?
Lord Gyles was coughing more than usual, and covering his nose with a square of red silk. He can smell it too. Grand Maester Pycelle had his eyes closed. Asleep again, she decided.
To the right of the bier were the Tyrells, the Lord of Highgarden foremost amongst them, flanked by his hideous mother and vacuous wife, his son Garlan and his daughter Margaery. Queen Margaery, she reminded herself; Joff’s widow and Tommen’s future wife. Twice wedded and never bedded, they said, but Cersei had her own suspicions. Margaery looked very much like her brother, the Knight of Flowers. The queen wondered if they had other things as common as well. Our little rose has a good many ladies waiting attendance on her, night and day. They stood behind her now, almost a dozen of them. Cersei studied their faces, wondering which of them might have the loosest tongue. Who is the most fearful, the most wanton, the hungriest for favor? She really must find out.
It was a relief when the singing ended. The smell coming off her father’s corpse seemed to have grown stronger. Most of the mourners had the decency to pretend that nothing was amiss, but Cersei saw some of Margaery’s ladies wrinkling their little Tyrell noses. As she and Tommen were walking back down the aisle the queen thought she heard someone mutter “privy” and chortle, but when she turned her head to see who had spoken a sea of solemn faces gazed at her blankly. They would never have dared make japes about him when he was still alive. He would have turned their bowels to water with a look.
Back out in the Hall of Lamps, the mourners were buzzing thick as flies. The Redwyne twins kissed her hand, and their father her cheek. Hallyne the Pyromancer promised that a flaming hand would burn in the sky above the city on the day her father’s bones went west. Lord Gyles announced that he had hired a master stonecarver to make a mighty statue of Lord Tywin, to stand eternal vigil beside the Lion Gate. Ser Lyman Turnberry appeared with a patch over his right eye, swearing that he would wear it until he could bring her the head of her dwarf brother.
“You are too kind.” Cersei kissed his cheek and moved away quickly, looking for Tommen. He was easy enough to find, with two Kingsguard beside him in white armor, but to her annoyance she saw that he had fallen into the clutches of Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother. The Queen of Thorns was almost of a height with Tommen, and for an instant Cersei took her for another child.
Before she could rescue him, the press brought her face-to-face with her uncle. When the queen reminded him of their meeting later, Ser Kevan gave a weary nod, and begged leave to withdraw. But Lancel lingered behind, the very picture of a man with one foot in the grave. But is he climbing in or climbing out?
Cersei forced herself to smile. “Lancel, I am happy to see you looking so much stronger. Maester Ballabar brought us such dire reports, we feared for your life. But I would have thought you on your way to Darry by now, to take up your lordship.” Her father had made Lancel a lord after the Battle of the Blackwater, as a sop to his brother Kevan.
“My father will ride with me to Darry when he escorts Lord Tywin’s bones back to Casterly Rock.” Her cousin’s voice was as wispy as the mustache on his upper lip. Though his hair had gone white, his mustache fuzz remained a sandy color. Cersei had often gazed up at it while the boy was inside her, pumping dutifully away. It looks like a smudge of dirt on his lip. She used to threaten to scrub it off with a little spit. “The riverlands have need of a strong hand,” Lancel added.
A pity that they’re getting such a feeble one, she wanted to say. Instead she smiled. “And you are to be wed as well.”
A gloomy look passed across the young knight’s ravaged face. “A Frey girl, and not of my choosing. She is not even maiden. A widow, of Darry blood. My father says that will help me with the peasants, but the peasants are all dead.” He reached for her hand, looking as if he might burst into tears. “It is cruel, Cersei. Your Grace knows that I love—”
“—House Lannister,” she finished for him. “No one can doubt that, Lancel. May your wife give you strong sons.” Best not let her father host the wedding, though. “I know you will do many noble deeds in Darry.”
Lancel nodded, plainly miserable. “When it seemed that I might die, my father brought the High Septon to pray for me. He is a good man, Cersei. He says the Mother spared me for some holy purpose, so I might atone for my sins.” His eyes were wet and shiny, a child’s eyes in an old man’s face.
Cersei wondered how he intended to atone for her. Mine own blood, she thought, disgusted. Was she the only lion left alive? Knighting him was a mistake, and bedding him a bigger one. Lancel was a weak reed, and she liked this newfound piety of his not at all; he had been much more amusing when he was trying to be Jaime. What has this mewling fool told the High Septon? And what will he tell his little Frey when they lay together in the dark? If he wished to boast of bedding a queen, well, men were always lying about women. She would put it down as the braggadocio of a callow boy smitten by unrequited love. But if he sings of Robert and the strongwine . . . “Atonement is best achieved through prayer,” Cersei told her cousin pointedly. “Silent prayer.” She left him to think about that, and girded herself to face the Tyrell host.
Margaery embraced her like a sister, which the queen found presumptuous, but this was not the place to reproach her. Lady Alerie and the cousins contended themselves with kissing fingers. Lady Graceford, who was large with child, asked the queen’s leave to name it Tywin if it were a boy, or Lanna if it were a girl. Lickspittles like you will drown the realm in Tywins, she reflected, but she graciously gave consent, feigning delight.
Lady Merryweather was the only one who truly pleased her. “Your Grace,” she said, in her sultry Myrish tones, “I have sent word to my friends across the narrow sea, asking them to seize the Imp at once should he show his ugly face in the Free Cities.”
“Do you have many friends across the water?”
“In Myr, many. In Lys as well, and Tyrosh. Men of power.”
Cersei could well believe it. The Myrish woman was too beautiful by half; long-legged and full-breasted, with smooth olive skin, ripe lips, huge dark eyes, and thick black hair that always looked as if she’d just come from bed. She even smells like sin, like some exotic lotus. “Lord Merryweather and I wish only to serve Your Grace and the little king,” the woman said, with a look that was as pregnant as Lady Graceford.
This one is ambitious, and her lord is proud but poor. “We must speak again, my lady. Taena, is it? You are most kind. I know that we shall be great friends.�
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And then the Lord of Highgarden himself fell upon her.
Mace Tyrell was no more than ten years older than Cersei, yet she thought of him as her father’s age, not her own. He was not quite so tall as Lord Tywin had been, but elsewise he was bigger, with a thick chest and a gut that had grown even thicker. His hair was chestnut colored and his eyes looked a bit like chestnuts too, but there were specks of white and grey in his beard. His face was often red. “Lord Tywin was a great man, and will be greatly missed,” he declared ponderously after he had kissed both her cheeks. “No man alive is fit to don his armor, that is plain. We all grieve for him.”
“My lord is good to say so.”
“If there is aught that I might do to serve in this dark hour, Your Grace need only ask.”
If you want to be Hand, my lord, at least have the courage to say it plainly. The queen smiled at him warmly. Let him read into that as much as he likes. “His Grace will be heartened to hear it . . . though surely you are needed in the Reach.”
“My son Willas is an able lad,” the man replied, refusing to take her pefectly good hint. “His leg may be twisted but he has no want of wits. And Garlan will soon take Brightwater. Between them the Reach will be in good hands, if it happens that I am needed elsewhere. The governance of the realm must come first, Lord Tywin often said. And I am pleased to bring Your Grace good tidings in that regard. My uncle Garth has agreed to serve as master of coin, as your lord father wished. He is making his way to Oldtown to take ship. His sons will accompany him. Lord Tywin mentioned something about finding places for the two of them as well. Perhaps in the City Watch.”
The queen’s smile had frozen so hard she feared her teeth might crack. Garth the Gross on the small council and his two bastards in the gold cloaks. Do the Tyrells think I will just serve the realm up to them on a gilded platter? The arrogance of it took her breath away.
“Garth has served me well as Lord Seneschal, as he served my father before me,” Tyrell was going on. “Littlefinger had a nose for gold, I grant you, but Garth—”
“My lord,” Cersei broke in, “I fear there has been some misunderstanding. I have asked Lord Gyles Rosby to serve as our new master of coin, and he has done me the honor of accepting.”
Mace gaped at her. “Rosby? That . . . cougher? But . . . the matter was agreed, Your Grace. Garth is on his way to Oldtown.”
“Best send a raven to Lord Hightower and ask him to make certain your uncle does not take ship. We would hate for Garth to brave an autumn sea for nought.” She smiled pleasantly.
A flush crept up Lord Tyrell’s thick neck and spread across his cheeks. “This . . . your lord father assured me . . .”
His mother appeared beside him, and slid her arm through his own. “It would seem that Lord Tywin did not share his plans with our regent, I can’t imagine why. Still, there ’tis, no use hectoring Her Grace. She is quite right, you must write Lord Leyton before Garth boards a ship. You know the sea will sicken him, and make his farting worse.” She gave Cersei a toothless smile. “Your council chambers will smell sweeter with Lord Gyles, though I daresay that coughing would drive me to distraction. We all adore dear old Uncle Garth, but the man is flatulent, that cannot be gainsaid. I do abhor foul smells.” Her wrinkled face wrinkled up even more. “I caught a whiff of something unpleasant in the holy sept, in truth. Mayhaps you smelled it too?”
“No,” Cersei said coldly. “A scent, you say?”
“More like a stink.”
“Perhaps you miss your autumn roses. We have kept you here too long.” The sooner she rid the court of Lady Olenna the better. Lord Tyrell would doubtless send off a goodly number of his soldiers to see his mother safely home.
“I do long for the fragrances of Highgarden, I confess it,” said the old lady, “but of course I can not leave until I have seen my sweet Margaery wed to your precious little Tommen.”
“I await that day eagerly as well,” Lord Tyrell put in, too loudly. “Lord Tywin and I were on the very point of setting a date, as it happens. Perhaps you and I might take up that discussion, Your Grace.”
“Soon.”
“Soon will serve,” said Lady Olenna, with a sniff. “Now come along, Mace, let Her Grace get on with her . . . grief.”
I will see you dead, old woman, Cersei promised herself as the Queen of Thorns tottered off to her towering guardsmen, a pair of seven footers she called Left and Right. We’ll see how sweet a corpse you make.
She went in search of Tommen again, rescued him from Margaery and her cousins, and made for the doors. Outside, the rain had finally stopped. The autumn air smelled sweet and fresh. Tommen started to take his crown off.
“Put that back on,” Cersei commanded him.
“It makes my neck hurt,” he said, but he did as he was bid. “Will I be married soon? Margaery says that as soon we’re wed we can go to Highgarden.”
“You are not going to Highgarden, but you can ride back to the castle.” Cersei beckoned to Ser Meryn Trant. “Bring His Grace a mount, and ask Lord Gyles if he would do me the honor of sharing my litter.” Things were moving more quickly than she had anticipated; there was no time to be squandered.
Tommen was happy at the prospect of a ride, and of course Lord Gyles was honored by her invitation . . . though when she asked him to be her master of coin, he began coughing so violently that she feared he might die right then and there. But the Mother was merciful, and Gyles eventually recover sufficiently to accept, and even began coughing out the names of men he wanted to replace, customs officers and wool factors appointed by Littlefinger, even one of the keepers of the keys.
“Name the cow what you will, so long as the milk flows. And should the question arise, you joined the council yesterday.”
“Yester—” A fit of coughing bent him over. “Yesterday. To be sure.” Lord Gyles coughed into a square of red silk, as if to hide the blood in his spittle. Cersei pretended not to notice. She did not think that he would be her master of coin for very long. When he dies I will find someone else. Perhaps she would recall Littlefinger. The queen could not imagine that Petyr Baelish would be allowed to remain Lord Protector of the Vale for very long, with Lysa Arryn dead. The Vale lords were already stirring, if what Pycelle said was true. They will take that wretched boy away from him, and he will come crawling back.
“Your, kaf, Grace?” Lord Gyles dabbed his mouth. “Might I, kaf, ask, kaf kaf, who will be, kaf, the King’s Hand?”
“My uncle,” she replied absently.
It was a relief to see the gates of the Red Keep looming large before her. She gave Tommen over to the charge of his squires, and retired gratefully to her own chambers to rest.
No sooner had she eased off her shoes than Jocelyn entered timidly to say that Qyburn was without and craved audience. “Send him in,” the queen commanded. A ruler gets no rest.
Qyburn was old, but his hair still had more ash than snow in it, and the laugh lines around his mouth made him look like some little girl’s favorite grandfather. A rather shabby grandfather, though. The collar of his robe was frayed, and one sleeve had been torn and badly sewn. “Your Grace,” he began, “I have examined Ser Gregor Clegane, as you commanded. The poison on the Viper’s spear was manticore venom from the east, I would stake my life on that.”
“Pycelle says no. He told my lord father that manticore venom kills the instant it reaches the heart.”
“And so it does. But this venom has been thickened somehow so as to draw out the Mountain’s dying.”
“Thickened? Thickened how? With some other substance?”
“It may be as Your Grace suggests, though in most cases adulterating a poison only lessens its potency. It may be that the cause is . . . less natural, let us say. A spell, I think.”
Is this one as big a fool as Pycelle? “So are you telling me that the Mountain is dying of some black sorcery?”
Qyburn ignored the mockery in her voice. “He is dying of the venom, but slowly, and in exquisite
agony. My efforts to ease his pain have proved as fruitless as Pycelle’s. Ser Gregor is overly accustomed to the poppy, I fear. His squire tells me that he is plagued by blinding headaches and oft quaffs the milk of the poppy as lesser men quaff ale. Be that as it may, his veins have turned black from head to heel, his water is clouded with pus, and the venom has eaten a hole in his side as large as my fist. It is a wonder that the man is still alive, if truth be told.”
“His size,” the queen suggested, frowning. “Gregor is a very large man. Also a very stupid one. Too stupid to know when he should die, it seems.” She held out her cup, and Senelle filled it once again. “The Dornishmen want his head, and his screaming frightens Tommen. It has even been known to wake me of a night. I would say it is past time we summoned Ilyn Payn.”
“Your Grace,” said Qyburn, “mayhaps I might move Ser Gregor to the dungeons? His screams will not disturb you there, and I will be able to tend to him more freely.”
“Tend to him?” She laughed. “Let Ser Ilyn tend to him.”
“If that is Your Grace’s wish,” Qyburn said, “but this poison . . . it would be useful to know more about it, would it not? Send a knight to slay a knight and an archer to kill an archer, the smallfolk often say. To combat the black arts . . .” He did not finish the thought, but only smiled at her.
He is not Pycelle, that much is plain. The queen weighed him, wondering. “Why did the Citadel take your chain? Tell me true, I warn you. I will have your tongue if you lie to me.”
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