A Feast for Dragons

shabby grandfather, though. The collar of
his robe was frayed, and one sleeve had been torn and badly sewn. “I must beg
Your Grace’s pardon for my appearance,” he said. “I have been down in the
dungeons making inquiries into the Imp’s escape, as you commanded.”
    “And what have you discovered?”
    “The night that Lord Varys and your brother disappeared, a
third man also vanished.”
    “Yes, the gaoler. What of him?”
    “Rugen was the man’s name. An undergaoler who had charge of
the black cells. The chief undergaoler describes him as portly, unshaven, gruff
of speech. He held his appointment of the old king, Aerys, and came and went as
he pleased. The black cells have not oft been occupied in recent years. The
other turnkeys were afraid of him, it seems, but none knew much about him. He
had no friends, no kin. Nor did he drink or frequent brothels. His sleeping
cell was damp and dreary, and the straw he slept upon was mildewed. His chamber
pot was overflowing.”
    “I know all this.” Jaime had examined Rugen’s cell, and Ser
Addam’s gold cloaks had examined it again.
    “Aye, Your Grace,” said Qyburn, “but did you know that under
that stinking chamber pot was a loose stone, which opened on a small hollow?
The sort of place where a man might hide valuables that he did not wish to be
discovered?”
    “Valuables?” This was new. “Coin, you mean?” She had
suspected all along that Tyrion had somehow bought this gaoler.
    “Beyond a doubt. To be sure, the hole was empty when I found
it. No doubt Rugen took his ill-gotten treasure with him when he fled. But as I
crouched over the hole with my torch, I saw something glitter, so I scratched
in the dirt until I dug it out.” Qyburn opened his palm. “A gold coin.”
    Gold, yes, but the moment Cersei took it she could tell that
it was wrong. Too small, she thought, too thin. The coin was old
and worn. On one side was a king’s face in profile, on the other side the
imprint of a hand. “This is no dragon,” she said.
    “No,” Qyburn agreed. “It dates from before the Conquest,
Your Grace. The king is Garth the Twelfth, and the hand is the sigil of House
Gardener.”
    Of Highgarden. Cersei closed her hand around the coin. What
treachery is this? Mace Tyrell had been one of Tyrion’s judges, and had called
loudly for his death. Was that some ploy? Could he have been plotting with the
Imp all the while, conspiring at Father’s death? With Tywin Lannister in his
grave, Lord Tyrell was an obvious choice to be King’s Hand, but even so . . .
“You will not speak of this with anyone,” she commanded.
    “Your Grace may trust in my discretion. Any man who rides
with a sellsword company learns to hold his tongue, else he does not keep it
long.”
    “In my company as well.” The queen put the coin away. She
would think about it later. “What of the other matter?”
    “Ser Gregor.” Qyburn shrugged. “I have examined him, as you
commanded. The poison on the Viper’s spear was manticore venom from the east, I
would stake my life on that.”
    “Pycelle says no. He told my lord father that manticore
venom kills the instant it reaches the heart.”
    “And so it does. But this venom has been thickened somehow, so as to draw out the Mountain’s dying.”
    “Thickened? Thickened how? With some other
substance?”
    “It may be as Your Grace suggests, though in most cases
adulterating a poison only lessens its potency. It may be that the cause is . .
. less natural, let us say. A spell, I think.”
    Is this one as big a fool as Pycelle? “So are you
telling me that the Mountain is dying of some black sorcery? ”
    Qyburn ignored the mockery in her voice. “He is dying of the
venom, but slowly, and in exquisite agony. My efforts to ease his pain have
proved as fruitless as Pycelle’s. Ser Gregor is overly accustomed to the poppy,
I fear. His squire tells me that he is plagued by blinding headaches and oft
quaffs the milk of the poppy as lesser men quaff ale. Be that as it may, his
veins have turned black from head to heel, his water is clouded with pus, and
the venom has eaten a hole in his side as large as my fist. It is a wonder that
the man is still alive, if truth be told.”
    “His size,” the queen suggested, frowning. “Gregor is a very
large man. Also a very stupid one. Too stupid to know when he should die, it
seems.” She held out her cup, and Senelle filled it once again. “His screaming
frightens Tommen. It has even been