A Feast for Dragons

Casterly Rock and make either Mathis Rowan or
Randyll Tarly the Hand of the King.”
    Tyrell bannermen, both of them. The suggestion left her
speechless. Is he bought? she wondered. Has he taken Tyrell gold to betray
House Lannister?
    “Mathis Rowan is sensible, prudent, well liked,” her uncle
went on, oblivious. “Randyll Tarly is the finest soldier in the realm. A poor
Hand for peacetime, but with Tywin dead there’s no better man to finish this
war. Lord Tyrell cannot take offense if you choose one of his own bannermen as
Hand. Both Tarly and Rowan are able men . . . and loyal . Name either
one, and you make him yours. You strengthen yourself and weaken Highgarden, yet
Mace will likely thank you for it.” He gave a shrug. “That is my counsel, take
it or no. You may make Moon Boy your Hand for all I care. My brother is dead,
woman. I am going to take him home.”
    Traitor, she thought. Turncloak. She wondered
how much Mace Tyrell had given him. “You would abandon your king when he needs
you most,” she told him. “You would abandon Tommen.”
    “Tommen has his mother.” Ser Kevan’s green eyes met her own,
unblinking. A last drop of wine trembled wet and red beneath his chin, and
finally fell. “Aye,” he added softly, after a pause, “and his father too, I
think.”

----
    Jaime
    S er Jaime Lannister, all in white, stood
beside his father’s bier, five fingers curled about the hilt of a golden
greatsword.
    At dusk, the interior of the Great Sept of Baelor turned dim
and eerie. The last light of day slanted down through the high windows, washing
the towering likenesses of the Seven in a red gloom. Around their altars,
scented candles flickered whilst deep shadows gathered in the transepts and
crept silently across the marble floors. The echoes of the evensongs died away
as the last mourners were departing.
    Balon Swann and Loras Tyrell remained when the rest had
gone. “No man can stand a vigil for seven days and seven nights,” Ser Balon
said. “When did you last sleep, my lord?”
    “When my lord father was alive,” said Jaime.
    “Allow me to stand tonight in your stead,” Ser Loras
offered.
    “He was not your father.” You did not kill him. I did.
Tyrion may have loosed the crossbow bolt that slew him, but I loosed Tyrion.
“Leave me.”
    “As my lord commands,” said Swann. Ser Loras looked as if he
might have argued further, but Ser Balon took his arm and drew him off. Jaime
listened to the echoes of their footfalls die away. And then he was alone again
with his lord father, amongst the candles and the crystals and the sickly sweet
smell of death. His back ached from the weight of his armor, and his legs felt
almost numb. He shifted his stance a bit and tightened his fingers around the
golden greatsword. He could not wield a sword, but he could hold one. His
missing hand was throbbing. That was almost funny. He had more feeling in the
hand he’d lost than in the rest of the body that remained to him.
    My hand is hungry for a sword. I need to kill someone.
Varys, for a start, but first I’d need to find the rock he’s hiding under. “I
commanded the eunuch to take him to a ship, not to your bedchamber,” he told
the corpse. “The blood is on his hands as much as . . . as Tyrion’s.” The blood
is on his hands as much as mine, he meant to say, but the words stuck in his
throat. Whatever Varys did, I made him do.
    He had waited in the eunuch’s chambers that night, when at
last he had decided not to let his little brother die. As he waited, he had
sharpened his dagger with one hand, taking a queer comfort from the scrape-scrape-scrape of steel on stone. At the sound of footsteps he stood beside the door. Varys
entered in a wash of powder and lavender. Jaime stepped out behind him, kicked
him in the back of the knee, knelt on his chest, and shoved the knife up under
his soft white chin, forcing his head up. “Why, Lord Varys,” he’d said
pleasantly, “fancy meeting you here.”
    “Ser Jaime?” Varys panted. “You frightened me.”
    “I meant to.” When he twisted the dagger, a trickle of blood
ran down the blade. “I was thinking you might help me pluck my brother from his
cell before Ser Ilyn lops his head off. It is an ugly head, I grant you, but he
only has the one.”
    “Yes . . . well . . . if you would . . . remove the blade .
. . yes, gently, as it please my lord, gently, oh, I’m pricked . . .” The
eunuch touched his neck and gaped at the blood on his