A Feast for Dragons

of her father’s lips
curved upward ever so slightly, giving him a look of vague bemusement. That
should not be. She blamed Pycelle; he should have told the silent sisters
that Lord Tywin Lannister never smiled. The man is as useless as nipples on
a breastplate. That half smile made Lord Tywin seem less fearful, somehow.
That, and the fact that his eyes were closed. Her father’s eyes had always been
unsettling; pale green, almost luminous, flecked with gold. His eyes could see
inside you, could see how weak and worthless and ugly you were down deep. When
he looked at you, you knew.
    Unbidden, a memory came to her, of the feast King Aerys had
thrown when Cersei first came to court, a girl as green as summer grass. Old
Merryweather had been nattering about raising the duty on wine when Lord Rykker
said, “If we need gold, His Grace should sit Lord Tywin on his chamber pot.”
Aerys and his lickspittles laughed loudly, whilst Father stared at Rykker over
his wine cup. Long after the merriment had died that gaze had lingered. Rykker
turned away, turned back, met Father’s eyes, then ignored them, drank a tankard
of ale, and stalked off red-faced, defeated by a pair of unflinching eyes.
    Lord Tywin’s eyes are closed forever now, Cersei thought. 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 in rainbows. The Lord of Casterly Rock deserved rainbows.
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 before the altar 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 at Jaime. Her twin stood as if he had been carved
from stone, and would not meet her eyes.
    On the benches, their uncle Kevan knelt with his shoulders
slumped, his son beside him. Lancel looks worse than Father. Though only
seventeen, he 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. If he has fallen asleep, I swear I will have
him whipped. To the right of the bier knelt the Tyrells: the Lord of
Highgarden, his hideous mother and vapid wife, his son Garlan and his daughter
Margaery. Queen Margaery, she reminded herself; Joff’s widow and
Tommen’s wife-to-be. Margaery looked very like her brother, the Knight of
Flowers. The queen wondered if they had other things in common. Our little
rose has a good many ladies waiting attendance on her, night and day. They
were with her now, almost a dozen of them. Cersei studied their faces,
wondering. Who is the most fearful, the most wanton, the hungriest for
favor? Who has the loosest tongue? She would need to make a point of
finding out.
    It was a relief when the singing finally 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 two
of Lady Margaery’s cousins 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 buzzed about
them thick as flies, eager to shower her with useless condolences. The Redwyne
twins both kissed her hand, their father her cheeks. Hallyne the Pyromancer
promised her that a flaming hand would burn in