A Feast for Crows. George R.r. Martin
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to the Rock and find a new husband for you.”
Cersei could feel her anger rising. “He spoke of such, yes. And I told him it was not my wish to wed again.”
Her uncle was unmoved. “If you are resolved against another marriage, I will not force it on you. As to the other, though … you are the Lady of Casterly Rock now. Your place is there.”
How dare you? she wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “I am also the Queen Regent. My place is with my son.”
“Your father thought not.”
“My father is dead.”
“To my grief, and the woe of all the realm. Open your eyes and look about you, Cersei. The kingdom is in ruins. Tywin might have been able to set matters aright, but …”
“I shall set matters aright!” Cersei softened her tone. “With your help, Uncle. If you will serve me as faithfully as you served my father—”
“You are not your father. And Tywin always regarded Jaime as his rightful heir.”
“Jaime … Jaime has taken vows. Jaime never thinks, he laughs at everything and everyone and says whatever comes into his head. Jaime is a handsome fool.”
“And yet he was your first choice to be the King’s Hand. What does that make you, Cersei?”
“I told you, I was sick with grief, I did not think—”
“No,” Ser Kevan agreed. “Which is why you should return to Casterly Rock and leave the king with those who do.”
“The king is my son!” Cersei rose to her feet.
“Aye,” her uncle said, “and from what I saw of Joffrey, you are as unfit a mother as you are a ruler.”
She threw the contents of her wine cup full in his face.
Ser Kevan rose with a ponderous dignity. “Your Grace.” Wine trickled down his cheeks and dripped from his close-cropped beard. “With your leave, might I withdraw?”
“By what right do you presume to give me terms? You are no more than one of my father’s household knights.”
“I hold no lands, that is true. But I have certain incomes, and chests of coin set aside. My own father forgot none of his children when he died, and Tywin knew how to reward good service. I feed two hundred knights and can double that number if need be. There are freeriders who will follow my banner, and I have the gold to hire sellswords. You would be wise not to take me lightly, Your Grace … and wiser still not to make of me a foe.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am counseling you. If you will not yield the regency to me, name me your castellan for Casterly Rock and make either Mathis Rowan or Randyll Tarly the Hand of the King.”
Tyrell bannermen, both of them. The suggestion left her speechless. Is he bought? she wondered. Has he taken Tyrell gold to betray House Lannister?
“Mathis Rowan is sensible, prudent, well liked,” her uncle went on, oblivious. “Randyll Tarly is the finest soldier in the realm. A poor Hand for peacetime, but with Tywin dead there’s no better man to finish this war. Lord Tyrell cannot take offense if you choose one of his own bannermen as Hand. Both Tarly and Rowan are able men … and loyal. Name either one, and you make him yours. You strengthen yourself and weaken Highgarden, yet Mace will likely thank you for it.” He gave a shrug. “That is my counsel, take it or no. You may make Moon Boy your Hand for all I care. My brother is dead, woman. I am going to take him home.”
Traitor, she thought. Turncloak. She wondered how much Mace Tyrell had given him. “You would abandon your king when he needs you most,” she told him. “You would abandon Tommen.”
“Tommen has his mother.” Ser Kevan’s green eyes met her own, unblinking. A last drop of wine trembled wet and red beneath his chin, and finally fell. “Aye,” he added softly, after a pause, “and his father too, I think.”
JAIME
Ser Jaime Lannister, all in white, stood beside his father’s bier, five fingers curled about the hilt of a golden greatsword.
At dusk, the interior of the Great Sept of Baelor turned dim and eerie. The last light of day slanted down through the high windows, washing the towering likenesses of the Seven in a red gloom. Around their altars, scented candles flickered whilst deep shadows gathered in the transepts and crept silently across the marble floors. The echoes of the evensongs died away as the last mourners were departing.
Balon Swann and Loras Tyrell remained when the rest had gone. “No man can stand a vigil for seven days and seven nights,” Ser Balon said. “When did you last sleep, my lord?”
“When my lord father was alive,” said Jaime.
“Allow me to stand tonight in your stead,” Ser Loras offered.
“He was not your father.” You did not kill him. I did. Tyrion may have loosed the crossbow bolt that slew him, but I loosed Tyrion. “Leave me.”
“As my lord commands,” said Swann. Ser Loras looked as if he might have argued further, but Ser Balon took his arm and drew him off. Jaime listened to the echoes of their footfalls die away. And then he was alone again with his lord father, amongst the candles and the crystals and the sickly sweet smell of death. His back ached from the weight of his armor, and his legs felt almost numb. He shifted his stance a bit and tightened his fingers around the golden greatsword. He could not wield a sword, but he could hold one. His missing hand was throbbing. That was almost funny. He had more feeling in the hand he’d lost than in the rest of the body that remained to him.
My hand is hungry for a sword. I need to kill someone. Varys, for a start, but first I’d need to find the rock he’s hiding under. “I commanded the eunuch to take him to a ship, not to your bedchamber,” he told the corpse. “The blood is on his hands as much as … as Tyrion’s.” The blood is on his hands as much as mine, he meant to say, but the words stuck in his throat. Whatever Varys did, I made him do.
He had waited in the eunuch’s chambers that night, when at last he had decided not to let his little brother die. As he waited, he had sharpened his dagger with one hand, taking a queer comfort from the scrape-scrape-scrape of steel on stone. At the sound of footsteps he stood beside the door. Varys entered in a wash of powder and lavender. Jaime stepped out behind him, kicked him in the back of the knee, knelt on his chest, and shoved the knife up under his soft white chin, forcing his head up. “Why, Lord Varys,” he’d said pleasantly, “fancy meeting you here.”
“Ser Jaime?” Varys panted. “You frightened me.”
“I meant to.” When he twisted the dagger, a trickle of blood ran down the blade. “I was thinking you might help me pluck my brother from his cell before Ser Ilyn lops his head off. It is an ugly head, I grant you, but he only has the one.”
“Yes … well … if you would … remove the blade … yes, gently, as it please my lord, gently, oh, I’m pricked …” The eunuch touched his neck and gaped at the blood on his fingers. “I have always abhorred the sight of my own blood.”
“You’ll have more to abhor shortly, unless you help me.”
Varys struggled to a sitting position. “Your brother … if the Imp should vanish unaccountably from his cell, q-questions would be asked. I would f-fear for my life …”
“Your life is mine. I do not care what secrets you know. If Tyrion dies, you will not long outlive him, I promise you.”
“Ah.” The eunuch sucked the blood off his fingers. “You ask a dreadful thing … to loose the Imp who slew our lovely king. Or is it that you believe him innocent?”
“Innocent or guilty,” Jaime