A Feast for Dragons

she did not recognize the dead man. He had hair
like her father, yes, but this was some other man, surely, a smaller man, and
much older. His bedrobe was hiked up around his chest, leaving him naked below
the waist. The quarrel had taken him in his groin between his navel and his
manhood, and was sunk so deep that only the fletching showed. His pubic hair
was stiff with dried blood. More was congealing in his navel.
    The smell of him made her wrinkle her nose. “Take the
quarrel out of him,” she commanded. “This is the King’s Hand!” And my
father. My lord father. Should I scream and tear my hair? They said Catelyn
Stark had clawed her own face to bloody ribbons when the Freys slew her
precious Robb. Would you like that, Father? she wanted to ask him. Or
would you want me to be strong? Did you weep for your own father? Her
grandfather had died when she was only a year old, but she knew the story. Lord
Tytos had grown very fat, and his heart burst one day when he was climbing the
steps to his mistress. Her father was off in King’s Landing when it happened,
serving as the Mad King’s Hand. Lord Tywin was often away in King’s Landing
when she and Jaime were young. If he wept when they brought him word of his
father’s death, he did it where no one could see the tears.
    The queen could feel her nails digging into her palms. “How
could you leave him like this? My father was Hand to three kings, as great a
man as ever strode the Seven Kingdoms. The bells must ring for him, as they
rang for Robert. He must be bathed and dressed as befits his stature, in ermine
and cloth-of-gold and crimson silk. Where is Pycelle? Where is Pycelle? ”
She turned to the guardsmen. “Puckens, bring Grand Maester Pycelle. He must see
to Lord Tywin.”
    “He’s seen him, Your Grace,” said Puckens. “He came and saw
and went, to summon the silent sisters.”
    They sent for me last. The realization made her
almost too angry for words. And Pycelle runs off to send a message rather
than soil his soft, wrinkled hands. The man is useless. “Find Maester
Ballabar,” she commanded. “Find Maester Frenken. Any of them.” Puckens and
Shortear ran to obey. “Where is my brother?”
    “Down the tunnel. There’s a shaft, with iron rungs set in
the stone. Ser Jaime went to see how deep it goes.”
    He has only one hand, she wanted to shout at them. One of
you should have gone. He has no business climbing ladders. The men who murdered
Father might be down there, waiting for him. Her twin had always been too rash,
and it would seem that even losing a hand had not taught him caution. She was
about to command the guards to go down after him and bring him back when
Puckens and Shortear returned with a grey-haired man between them. “Your
Grace,” said Shortear, “this here claims he was a maester.”
    The man bowed low. “How may I serve Your Grace?”
    His face was vaguely familiar, though Cersei could not place
him. Old, but not so old as Pycelle. This one has some strength in him
still. He was tall, though slightly stooped, with crinkles around his bold
blue eyes. His throat is naked. “You wear no maester’s chain.”
    “It was taken from me. My name is Qyburn, if it please Your
Grace. I treated your brother’s hand.”
    “His stump, you mean.” She remembered him now. He had come
with Jaime from Harrenhal.
    “I could not save Ser Jaime’s hand, it is true. My arts
saved his arm, however, mayhaps his very life. The Citadel took my chain, but
they could not take my knowledge.”
    “You may suffice,” she decided. “If you fail me you will
lose more than a chain, I promise you. Remove the quarrel from my father’s
belly and make him ready for the silent sisters.”
    “As my queen commands.” Qyburn went to the bedside, paused,
looked back. “And how shall I deal with the girl, Your Grace?”
    “Girl?” Cersei had overlooked the second body. She strode to
the bed, flung aside the heap of bloody coverlets, and there she was, naked,
cold, and pink . . . save for her face, which had turned as black as Joff’s had
at his wedding feast. A chain of linked golden hands was half-buried in the
flesh of her throat, twisted so tight that it had broken the skin. Cersei
hissed like an angry cat. “What is she doing here?”
    “We found her there, Your Grace,” said Shortear. “It’s the
Imp’s whore.” As if that explained why she was here.
    My lord father had no use for whores, she thought. After
our mother died he