"Margaery is not half so clever as she thinks. She has no notion what a sweet serpent she has in that Myrish slut. I use Taena to feed the little queen what I want her to know. Some of it is even true." Cersei's eyes were bright with mischief. "And Taena tells me everything Maid Margaery is doing."
"Does she? How much do you know about this woman?"
"I know she is a mother, with a young son that she wants to rise high in this world. She will do whatever is required to see that he does. Mothers are all the same. Lady Merryweather may be a serpent, but she is far from stupid. She knows I can do more for her than Margaery, so she makes herself useful to me. You would be surprised at all the interesting things she's told me."
"What sorts of things?"
Cersei sat beneath the window. "Did you know that the Queen of Thorns keeps a chest of coins in her wheelhouse? Old gold from before the Conquest. Should any tradesman be so unwise as to name a price in golden coins, she pays him with hands from Highgarden, each half the weight of one of our dragons. What merchant would dare complain of being cheated by Mace Tyrell's lady mother?" She sipped her wine, and said, "Did you enjoy your little ride?"
"Our uncle remarked upon your absence."
"Our uncle's remarks do not concern me."
"They should. You could make good use of him. If not at Riverrun or the Rock, then in the north against Lord Stannis. Father always relied upon Kevan when - "
"Roose Bolton is our Warden of the North. He will deal with Stannis."
"Lord Bolton is trapped below the Neck, cut off from the north by the ironmen at Moat Cailin."
"Not for long. Bolton's bastard son will soon remove that little obstacle. Lord Bolton will have two thousand Freys to augment his own strength, under Lord Walder's sons Hosteen and Aenys. That should be more than enough to deal with Stannis and a few thousand broken men."
"Ser Kevan - "
" - will have his hands full at Darry, teaching Lancel how to wipe his arse. Father's death has unmanned him. He is an old done man. Daven and Damion will serve us better."
"They'll suffice." Jaime had no quarrel with his cousins. "You still require a Hand, however. If not our uncle, who?"
His sister laughed. "Not you. Have no fear on that count. Perhaps Taena's husband. His grandfather was Hand under Aerys."
The horn-of-plenty Hand. Jaime remembered Owen Merryweather well enough; an amiable man, but ineffectual. "As I recall, he did so well that Aerys exiled him and seized his lands."
"Robert gave them back. Some, at least. Taena would be pleased if Orton could recover the rest."
"Is this about pleasing some Myrish whore? Here I thought it was about governing the realm."
"I govern the realm."
Seven save us all, you do. His sister liked to think of herself as Lord Tywin with teats, but she was wrong. Their father had been as relentless and implacable as a glacier, where Cersei was all wildfire, especially when thwarted. She had been giddy as a maiden when she learned that Stannis had abandoned Dragonstone, certain that he had finally given up the fight and sailed away to exile. When word came down from the north that he had turned up again at the Wall, her fury had been fearful to behold. She does not lack for wits, but she has no judgment, and no patience. "You need a strong Hand to help you."
"A weak ruler needs a strong Hand, as Aerys needed Father. A strong ruler requires only a diligent servant to carry out his orders." She swirled her wine. "Lord Hallyne might suit. He would not be the first pyromancer to serve as the King's Hand."
No. I killed the last one. "There is talk that you mean to make Aurane Waters the master of ships."
"Has someone been informing on me?" When he did not answer, Cersei tossed her hair back, and said, "Waters is well suited to the office. He has spent half his life on ships."
"Half his life? He cannot be more than twenty."
"Two-and-twenty, and what of it? Father was not even one-and-twenty when Aerys Targaryen named him Hand. It is past time Tommen had some young men about him in place of all these wrinkled greybeards. Aurane is strong and vigorous."
Strong and vigorous and handsome, Jaime thought. . . . she's been f**king Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know . . . "Paxter Redwyne would be a better choice. He commands the largest fleet in Westeros. Aurane Waters could command a skiff, but only if you bought him one."
"You are a child, Jaime. Redwyne is Tyrell's bannerman, and nephew to that hideous grandmother of his. I want none of Lord Tyrell's creatures on my council."
"Tommen's council, you mean."
"You know what I mean."
Too well. "I know that Aurane Waters is a bad idea, and Hallyne is a worse one. As for Qyburn . . . gods be good, Cersei, he rode with Vargo Hoat. The Citadel stripped him of his chain!"
"The grey sheep. Qyburn has made himself most useful to me. And he is loyal, which is more than I can say of mine own kin."
The crows will feast upon us all if you go on this way, sweet sister. "Cersei, listen to yourself. You are seeing dwarfs in every shadow and making foes of friends. Uncle Kevan is not your enemy. I am not your enemy."
Her face twisted in fury. "I begged you for your help. I went down on my knees to you, and you refused me!"
"My vows . . ."
". . . did not stop you slaying Aerys. Words are wind. You could have had me, but you chose a cloak instead. Get out."
"Sister . . ."
"Get out, I said. I am sick of looking at that ugly stump of yours. Get out!" To speed him on his way, she heaved her wine cup at his head. She missed, but Jaime took the hint.
Evenfall found him sitting alone in the common room of White Sword Tower, with a cup of Dornish red and the White Book. He was turning pages with the stump of his sword hand when the Knight of Flowers entered, removed his cloak and swordbelt and hung them on a wall peg next to Jaime's.
"I saw you in the yard today," said Jaime. "You rode well."
"Better than well, surely." Ser Loras poured himself a cup of wine, and took a seat across the half-moon table.
"A more modest man might have answered 'My lord is too kind,' or 'I had a good mount.'"
"The horse was adequate, and my lord is as kind as I am modest." Loras waved at the book. "Lord Renly always said that books were for maesters."
"This one is for us. The history of every man who has ever worn a white cloak is written here."
"I have glanced at it. The shields are pretty. I prefer books with more illuminations. Lord Renly owned a few with drawings that would turn a septon blind."
Jaime had to smile. "There's none of that here, ser, but the histories will open your eyes. You would do well to know about the lives of those who went before."
"I do. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam Redwyne, the Greatheart, Barristan the Bold . . ."
". . . Gwayne Corbray, Alyn Connington, the Demon of Darry, aye. You will have heard of Lucamore Strong as well."
"Ser Lucamore the Lusty?" Ser Loras seemed amused. "Three wives and thirty children, was it? They cut his c**k off. Shall I sing the song for you, my lord?"
"And Ser Terrence Toyne?"
"Bedded the king's mistress and died screaming. The lesson is, men who wear white breeches need to keep them tightly laced."
"Gyles Greycloak? Orivel the Open-Handed?"
"Gyles was a traitor, Orivel a coward. Men who shamed the white cloak. What is my lord suggesting?"
"Little and less. Don't take offense where none was meant, ser. How about Long Tom Costayne?"
Ser Loras shook his head.
"He was a Kingsguard knight for sixty years."
"When was that? I've never - "
"Ser Donnel of Duskendale, then?"
"I may have heard the name, but - "
"Addison Hill? The White Owl, Michael Mertyns? Jeffory Norcross? They called him Neveryield. Red Robert Flowers? What can you tell me of them?"
"Flowers is a bastard name. So is Hill."
"Yet both men rose to command the Kingsguard. Their tales are in the book. Rolland Darklyn is in here too. The youngest man ever to serve in the Kingsguard, until me. He was given his cloak on a battlefield and died within an hour of donning it."
"He can't have been very good."
"Good enough. He died, but his king lived. A lot of brave men have worn the white cloak. Most have been forgotten."
"Most deserve to be forgotten. The heroes will always be remembered. The best."
"The best and the worst." So one of us is like to live in song. "And a few who were a bit of both. Like him." He tapped the page he had been reading.
"Who?" Ser Loras craned his head around to see. "Ten black pellets on a scarlet field. I do not know those arms."
"They belonged to Criston Cole, who served the first Viserys and the second Aegon." Jaime closed the White Book. "They called him Kingmaker."
Chapter Seventeen CERSEI
T hree wretched fools with a leather sack, the queen thought as they sank to their knees before her. The look of them did not encourage her. I suppose there is always a chance.
"Your Grace," said Qyburn quietly, "the small council . . ."
". . . will await my pleasure. It may be that we can bring them word of a traitor's death." Off across the city, the bells of Baelor's Sept sang their song of mourning. No bells will ring for you, Tyrion, Cersei thought. I shall dip your head in tar and give your twisted body to the dogs. "Off your knees," she told the would-be lords. "Show me what you've brought me."
They rose; three ugly men, and ragged. One had a boil on his neck, and none had washed in half a year. The prospect of raising such to lordship amused her. I could seat them next to Margaery at feasts. When the chief fool undid the drawstring on the sack and plunged his hand inside, the smell of decay filled her audience chamber like some rank rose. The head he pulled out was grey-green and crawling with maggots. It smells like Father. Dorcas gasped, and Jocelyn covered her mouth and retched.
The queen considered her prize, unflinching. "You've killed the wrong dwarf," she said at last, grudging every word.
"We never did," one of the fools dared to say. "This is got to be him, ser. A dwarf, see. He's rotted some, is all."
"He has also grown a new nose," Cersei observed. "A rather bulbous one, I'd say. Tyrion's nose was hacked off in a battle."
The three fools exchanged a look. "No one told us," said the one with head in hand. "This one come walking along as bold as you please, some ugly dwarf, so we thought . . ."
"He said he were a sparrow," the one with the boil added, "and you said he was lying." That was directed at the third man.
The queen was angry to think that she had kept her small council waiting for this mummer's farce. "You have wasted my time and slain an innocent man. I should have your own heads off." But if she did, the next man might hesitate and let the Imp slip the net. She would pile dead dwarfs ten feet high before she let that happen. "Remove yourselves from my sight."