A Feast for Dragons

spun gold, added a good
foot and a half to his height.
    Lord Tywin had given him that crown to replace the one that
was lost when the mob killed the previous High Septon. They had pulled the fat
fool from his litter and torn him apart, the day Myrcella sailed for Dorne. That
one was a great glutton, and biddable. This one . . . This High Septon was
of Tyrion’s making, Cersei recalled suddenly. It was a disquieting thought.
    The old man’s spotted hand looked like a chicken claw as it
poked from a sleeve encrusted with golden scrollwork and small crystals. Cersei
knelt on the wet marble and kissed his fingers, and bid Tommen to do the same. What
does he know of me? How much did the dwarf tell him? The High Septon smiled
as he escorted her into the sept. But was it a threatening smile full of
unspoken knowledge, or just some vacuous twitch of an old man’s wrinkled lips?
The queen could not be certain.
    They made their way through the Hall of Lamps beneath
colored globes of leaded glass, Tommen’s hand in hers. Trant and Kettleblack
flanked them, water dripping from their wet cloaks to puddle on the floor. The
High Septon walked slowly, leaning on a weirwood staff topped by a crystal orb.
Seven of the Most Devout attended him, shimmering in cloth-of-silver. Tommen
wore cloth-of-gold beneath his sable mantle, the queen an old gown of black
velvet lined with ermine. There’d been no time to have a new one made, and she
could not wear the same dress she had worn for Joffrey, nor the one she’d
buried Robert in.
    At least I will not be expected to don mourning for Tyrion.
I shall dress in crimson silk and cloth-of-gold for that, and wear rubies in my
hair. The man who brought her the dwarf’s head would be raised to lordship, she
had proclaimed, no matter how mean and low his birth or station. Ravens were
carrying her promise to every part of the Seven Kingdoms, and soon enough word
would cross the narrow sea to the Nine Free Cities and the lands beyond. Let the
Imp run to the ends of the earth, he will not escape me.
    The royal procession passed through the inner doors into the
cavernous heart of the Great Sept, and down a wide aisle, one of seven that met
beneath the dome. To right and left, highborn mourners sank to their knees as
the king and queen went by. Many of her father’s bannermen were here, and
knights who had fought beside Lord Tywin in half a hundred battles. The sight
of them made her feel more confident. I am not without friends.
    Under the Great Sept’s lofty dome of glass and gold and
crystal, Lord Tywin Lannister’s body rested upon a stepped marble bier. At its
head Jaime stood at vigil, his one good hand curled about the hilt of a tall
golden greatsword whose point rested on the floor. The hooded cloak he wore was
as white as freshly fallen snow, and the scales of his long hauberk were
mother-of-pearl chased with gold. Lord Tywin would have wanted him in
Lannister gold and crimson, she thought. It always angered him to see
Jaime all in white. Her brother was growing his beard again as well. The
stubble covered his jaw and cheeks, and gave his face a rough, uncouth look. He
might at least have waited till Father’s bones were interred beneath the Rock.
    Cersei led the king up three short steps, to kneel beside
the body. Tommen’s eyes were filled with tears. “Weep quietly,” she told him,
leaning close. “You are a king, not a squalling child. Your lords are watching
you.” The boy swiped the tears away with the back of his hand. He had her eyes,
emerald green, as large and bright as Jaime’s eyes had been when he was
Tommen’s age. Her brother had been such a pretty boy . . . but fierce as
well, as fierce as Joffrey, a true lion cub. The queen put her arm around
Tommen and kissed his golden curls. He will need me to teach him how to rule
and keep him safe from his enemies. Some of them stood around them even
now, pretending to be friends.
    The silent sisters had armored Lord Tywin as if to fight
some final battle. He wore his finest plate, heavy steel enameled a deep, dark
crimson, with gold inlay on his gauntlets, greaves, and breastplate. His
rondels were golden sunbursts; a golden lioness crouched upon each shoulder; a
maned lion crested the greathelm beside his head. Upon his chest lay a
longsword in a gilded scabbard studded with rubies, his hands folded about its
hilt in gloves of gilded mail. Even in death his face is noble, she
thought, although the mouth . . . The corners