A Feast for Dragons

be missed. I’ll wager they
was part of it, along with the one who’s gone missing.”
    No, Jaime could have told him. Varys dosed their wine to
make them sleep. “If so, we might have coaxed the truth from them.” . . . she’s
been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and Moon Boy for all I know . . .
“If I had a suspicious nature I might wonder why you were in such haste to make
certain these two were never put to the question. Did you need to silence them
to conceal your own part in this?”
    “Us?” Kettleblack choked on that. “All we done was what the
queen commanded. On my word as your Sworn Brother.”
    Jaime’s phantom fingers twitched as he said, “Get Osney and
Osfryd down here and clean up this mess you’ve made. And the next time my sweet
sister commands you to kill a man, come to me first. Elsewise, stay out of my
sight, ser.”
    The words echoed in his head in the dimness of Baelor’s
Sept. Above him, all the windows had gone black, and he could see the faint
light of distant stars. The sun had set for good and all. The stench of death
was growing stronger, despite the scented candles. The smell reminded Jaime
Lannister of the pass below the Golden Tooth, where he had won a glorious
victory in the first days of the war. On the morning after the battle, the
crows had feasted on victors and vanquished alike, as once they had feasted on
Rhaegar Targaryen after the Trident. How much can a crown be worth, when a
crow can dine upon a king?
    There were crows circling the seven towers and great dome of
Baelor’s Sept even now, Jaime suspected, their black wings beating against the
night air as they searched for a way inside. Every crow in the Seven
Kingdoms should pay homage to you, Father. From Castamere to the Blackwater,
you fed them well. That notion pleased Lord Tywin; his smile widened
further. Bloody hell, he’s grinning like a bridegroom at his bedding.
    That was so grotesque it made Jaime laugh aloud.
    The sound echoed through the transepts and crypts and
chapels, as if the dead interred within the walls were laughing too. Why not?
This is more absurd than a mummer’s farce, me standing vigil for a father I
helped to slay, sending men forth to capture the brother I helped to free . . .
He had commanded Ser Addam Marbrand to search the Street of Silk. “Look under
every bed, you know how fond my brother is of brothels.” The gold cloaks would
find more of interest beneath the whores’ skirts than beneath their beds. He
wondered how many bastard children would be born of the pointless search.
    Unbidden, his thoughts went to Brienne of Tarth. Stupid
stubborn ugly wench. He wondered where she was. Father, give her
strength. Almost a prayer . . . but was it the god he was invoking, the
Father Above whose towering gilded likeness glimmered in the candlelight across
the sept? Or was he praying to the corpse that lay before him? Does it
matter? They never listened, either one. The Warrior had been Jaime’s god
since he was old enough to hold a sword. Other men might be fathers, sons,
husbands, but never Jaime Lannister, whose sword was as golden as his hair. He
was a warrior, and that was all he would ever be.
    I should tell Cersei the truth, admit that it was me who
freed our little brother from his cell. The truth had worked so splendidly with
Tyrion, after all. I killed your vile son, and now I’m off to kill your father
too. Jaime could hear the Imp laughing in the gloom. He turned his head to look,
but the sound was only his own laughter coming back at him. He closed his eyes,
and just as quickly snapped them open. I must not sleep. If he slept, he might
dream. Oh, how Tyrion was sniggering. . . . a lying whore . . . fucking Lancel
and Osmund Kettleblack . . .
    At midnight the hinges on the Father’s Doors gave a groan as
several hundred septons filed in for their devotions. Some were clad in the
cloth-of-silver vestments and crystal coronals that marked the Most Devout;
their humbler brethren wore their crystals on thongs about their necks and
cinched white robes with seven-stranded belts, each plait a different color.
Through the Mother’s Doors marched white septas from their cloister, seven
abreast and singing softly, while the silent sisters came single file down the
Stranger’s Steps. Death’s handmaidens were garbed in soft grey, their faces
hooded and shawled so only their eyes could be seen. A host of brothers
appeared as well, in robes of brown and butternut and dun