A Feast for Dragons

known to wake me of a night. I would say it
is past time we summoned Ilyn Payne.”
    “Your Grace,” said Qyburn, “mayhaps I might move Ser Gregor
to the dungeons? His screams will not disturb you there, and I will be able to
tend to him more freely.”
    “Tend to him?” She laughed. “Let Ser Ilyn tend to him.”
    “If that is Your Grace’s wish,” Qyburn said, “but this
poison . . . it would be useful to know more about it, would it not? Send a
knight to slay a knight and an archer to kill an archer, the smallfolk often say.
To combat the black arts . . .” He did not finish the thought, but only smiled
at her.
    He is not Pycelle, that much is plain. The queen
weighed him, wondering. “Why did the Citadel take your chain?”
    “The archmaesters are all craven at heart. The grey sheep,
Marwyn calls them. I was as skilled a healer as Ebrose, but aspired to surpass
him. For hundreds of years the men of the Citadel have opened the bodies of the
dead, to study the nature of life. I wished to understand the nature of death,
so I opened the bodies of the living. For that crime the grey sheep shamed me
and forced me into exile . . . but I understand the nature of life and death
better than any man in Oldtown.”
    “Do you?” That intrigued her. “Very well. The Mountain is
yours. Do what you will with him, but confine your studies to the black cells.
When he dies, bring me his head. My father promised it to Dorne. Prince Doran
would no doubt prefer to kill Gregor himself, but we all must suffer
disappointments in this life.”
    “Very good, Your Grace.” Qyburn cleared his throat. “I am
not so well provided as Pycelle, however. I must needs equip myself with
certain . . .”
    “I shall instruct Lord Gyles to provide you with gold
sufficient for your needs. Buy yourself some new robes as well. You look as
though you’ve wandered up from Flea Bottom.” She studied his eyes, wondering
how far she dared trust this one. “Need I say that it will go ill for you if
any word of your . . . labors . . . should pass beyond these walls?”
    “No, Your Grace.” Qyburn gave her a reassuring smile. “Your
secrets are safe with me.”
    When he was gone, Cersei poured herself a cup of strongwine
and drank it by the window, watching the shadows lengthen across the yard and
thinking about the coin. Gold from the Reach. Why would an undergaoler in
King’s Landing have gold from the Reach, unless he were paid to help bring
about Father’s death?
    Try as she might, she could not seem to bring Lord Tywin’s
face to mind without seeing that silly little half smile and remembering the
foul smell coming off his corpse. She wondered whether Tyrion was somehow
behind that as well. It is small and cruel, like him. Could Tyrion have
made Pycelle his catspaw? He sent the old man to the black cells, and this
Rugen had charge of those cells, she remembered. All the strings were
tangled up together in ways she did not like. This High Septon is Tyrion’s
creature too, Cersei recalled suddenly, and Father’s poor body was in
his care from dark till dawn.
    Her uncle arrived promptly at sunset, wearing a quilted
doublet of charcoal-colored wool as somber as his face. Like all the
Lannisters, Ser Kevan was fair-skinned and blond, though at five-and-fifty he
had lost most of his hair. No one would ever call him comely. Thick of waist,
round of shoulder, with a square jutting chin that his close-cropped yellow
beard did little to conceal, he reminded her of some old mastiff . . . but a
faithful old mastiff was the very thing that she required.
    They ate a simple supper of beets and bread and bloody beef
with a flagon of Dornish red to wash it all down. Ser Kevan said little and
scarce touched his wine cup. He broods too much, she decided. He
needs to be put to work to get beyond his grief.
    She said as much, when the last of the food had been cleared
away and the servants had departed. “I know how much my father relied on you,
Uncle. Now I must do the same.”
    “You need a Hand,” he said, “and Jaime has refused you.”
    He is blunt. Very well. “Jaime . . . I felt so lost
with Father dead, I scarce knew what I was saying. Jaime is gallant, but a bit
of a fool, let us be frank. Tommen needs a more seasoned man. Someone older . .
.”
    “Mace Tyrell is older.”
    Her nostrils flared. “Never.” Cersei pushed a lock of hair
off her brow. “The Tyrells overreach themselves.”
    “You would be a fool to make Mace Tyrell