A Feast for Dragons

the queen found
presumptuous, but this was not the place to reproach her. Lady Alerie and the
cousins contented themselves with kissing fingers. Lady Graceford, who was
large with child, asked the queen’s leave to name it Tywin if it were a boy, or
Lanna if it were a girl. Another one? she almost groaned. The realm
will drown in Tywins. She gave consent as graciously as she could, feigning
delight.
    It was Lady Merryweather who truly pleased her. “Your
Grace,” that one said, in her sultry Myrish tones, “I have sent word to my
friends across the narrow sea, asking them to seize the Imp at once should he
show his ugly face in the Free Cities.”
    “Do you have many friends across the water?”
    “In Myr, many. In Lys as well, and Tyrosh. Men of power.”
    Cersei could well believe it. The Myrish woman was too
beautiful by half; long-legged and full-breasted, with smooth olive skin, ripe
lips, huge dark eyes, and thick black hair that always looked as if she’d just
come from bed. She even smells of sin, like some exotic lotus. “Lord
Merryweather and I wish only to serve Your Grace and the little king,” the
woman purred, with a look that was as pregnant as Lady Graceford.
    This one is ambitious, and her lord is proud but poor. “We must speak again, my lady. Taena, is it? You are most kind. I know that we
shall be great friends.”
    Then the Lord of Highgarden descended on her.
    Mace Tyrell was no more than ten years older than Cersei,
yet she thought of him as her father’s age, not her own. He was not quite so
tall as Lord Tywin had been, but elsewise he was bigger, with a thick chest and
a gut grown even thicker. His hair was chestnut-colored, but there were specks
of white and grey in his beard. His face was often red. “Lord Tywin was a great
man, an extraordinary man,” he declared ponderously after he had kissed
both her cheeks. “We shall never see his like again, I fear.”
    You are looking at his like, fool, Cersei thought. It
is his daughter standing here before you. But she needed Tyrell and the
strength of Highgarden to keep Tommen on his throne, so all she said was, “He
will be greatly missed.”
    Tyrell put a hand upon her shoulder. “No man alive is fit to
don Lord Tywin’s armor, that is plain. Still, the realm goes on, and must be
ruled. If there is aught that I might do to serve in this dark hour, Your Grace
need only ask.”
    If you want to be the King’s Hand, my lord, have the courage
to say it plainly. The queen smiled. Let him read into that as much as he
likes. “Surely my lord is needed in the Reach?”
    “My son Willas is an able lad,” the man replied, refusing to
take her perfectly good hint. “His leg may be twisted but he has no want of
wits. And Garlan will soon take Brightwater. Between them the Reach will be in
good hands, if it happens that I am needed elsewhere. The governance of the
realm must come first, Lord Tywin often said. And I am pleased to bring Your
Grace good tidings in that regard. My uncle Garth has agreed to serve as master
of coin, as your lord father wished. He is making his way to Oldtown to take
ship. His sons will accompany him. Lord Tywin mentioned something about finding
places for the two of them as well. Perhaps in the City Watch.”
    The queen’s smile had frozen so hard she feared her teeth
might crack. Garth the Gross on the small council and his two bastards in the
gold cloaks . . . do the Tyrells think I will just serve the realm up to them
on a gilded platter? The arrogance of it took her breath away.
    “Garth has served me well as Lord Seneschal, as he served my
father before me,” Tyrell was going on. “Littlefinger had a nose for gold, I
grant you, but Garth—”
    “My lord,” Cersei broke in, “I fear there has been some
misunderstanding. I have asked Lord Gyles Rosby to serve as our new master of
coin, and he has done me the honor of accepting.”
    Mace gaped at her. “Rosby? That . . . cougher? But .
. . the matter was agreed, Your Grace. Garth is on his way to Oldtown.”
    “Best send a raven to Lord Hightower and ask him to make
certain your uncle does not take ship. We would hate for Garth to brave an
autumn sea for nought.” She smiled pleasantly.
    A flush crept up Tyrell’s thick neck. “This . . . your lord
father assured me . . .” He began to sputter.
    Then his mother appeared and slid her arm through his own.
“It would seem that Lord Tywin did not share his plans with our regent, I can’t imagine