A Feast for Dragons

why. Still, there ’tis, no use hectoring Her Grace. She is quite
right, you must write Lord Leyton before Garth boards a ship. You know the sea
will sicken him and make his farting worse.” Lady Olenna gave Cersei a
toothless smile. “Your council chambers will smell sweeter with Lord Gyles,
though I daresay that coughing would drive me to distraction. We all adore dear
old uncle Garth, but the man is flatulent, that cannot be gainsaid. I do abhor
foul smells.” Her wrinkled face wrinkled up even more. “I caught a whiff of
something unpleasant in the holy sept, in truth. Mayhaps you smelled it too?”
    “No,” Cersei said coldly. “A scent, you say?”
    “More like a stink.”
    “Perhaps you miss your autumn roses. We have kept you here
too long.” The sooner she rid the court of Lady Olenna the better. Lord Tyrell
would doubtless dispatch a goodly number of knights to see his mother safely
home, and the fewer Tyrell swords in the city, the more soundly the queen would
sleep.
    “I do long for the fragrances of Highgarden, I confess it,”
said the old lady, “but of course I cannot leave until I have seen my sweet
Margaery wed to your precious little Tommen.”
    “I await that day eagerly as well,” Tyrell put in. “Lord
Tywin and I were on the point of setting a date, as it happens. Perhaps you and
I might take up that discussion, Your Grace.”
    “Soon.”
    “Soon will serve,” said Lady Olenna with a sniff. “Now come
along, Mace, let Her Grace get on with her . . . grief.”
    I will see you dead, old woman, Cersei promised
herself as the Queen of Thorns tottered off between her towering guardsmen, a
pair of seven-footers that it amused her to call Left and Right. We’ll see
how sweet a corpse you make. The old woman was twice as clever as her lord
son, that was plain.
    The queen rescued her son from Margaery and her cousins, and
made for the doors. Outside, the rain had finally stopped. The autumn air
smelled sweet and fresh. Tommen took his crown off. “Put that back on,” Cersei
commanded him.
    “It makes my neck hurt,” the boy said, but he did as he was
bid. “Will I be married soon? Margaery says that as soon as we’re wed we can go
to Highgarden.”
    “You are not going to Highgarden, but you can ride back to
the castle.” Cersei beckoned to Ser Meryn Trant. “Bring His Grace a mount, and
ask Lord Gyles if he would do me the honor of sharing my litter.” Things were
moving more quickly than she had anticipated; there was no time to be
squandered.
    Tommen was happy at the prospect of a ride, and of course
Lord Gyles was honored by her invitation . . . though when she asked him to be
her master of coin, he began coughing so violently that she feared he might die
right then and there. But the Mother was merciful, and Gyles eventually
recovered sufficiently to accept, and even began coughing out the names of men
he wanted to replace, customs officers and wool factors appointed by
Littlefinger, even one of the keepers of the keys.
    “Name the cow what you will, so long as the milk flows. And
should the question arise, you joined the council yesterday.”
    “Yester—” A fit of coughing bent him over. “Yesterday. To be
sure.” Lord Gyles coughed into a square of red silk, as if to hide the blood in
his spittle. Cersei pretended not to notice.
    When he dies I will find someone else. Perhaps she
would recall Littlefinger. The queen could not imagine that Petyr Baelish would
be allowed to remain Lord Protector of the Vale for very long, with Lysa Arryn
dead. The Vale lords were already stirring, if what Pycelle said was true. Once
they take that wretched boy away from him, Lord Petyr will come crawling back.
    “Your Grace?” Lord Gyles coughed, and dabbed his mouth.
“Might I . . .” He coughed again. “. . . ask who . . .” Another series of
coughs racked him. “. . . who will be the King’s Hand?”
    “My uncle,” she replied absently.
    It was a relief to see the gates of the Red Keep looming
large before her. She gave Tommen over to the charge of his squires and retired
gratefully to her own chambers to rest.
    No sooner had she eased off her shoes than Jocelyn entered
timidly to say that Qyburn was without and craved audience. “Send him in,” the
queen commanded. A ruler gets no rest.
    Qyburn was old, but his hair still had more ash than snow in
it, and the laugh lines around his mouth made him look like some little girl’s
favorite grandfather. A rather