A Feast for Dragons

down upon the marble steps. “I
wasn’t scared,” the boy insisted. “The smell made me sick. Didn’t it make you
sick? How could you bear it, Uncle, ser?”
    I have smelled my own hand rotting, when Vargo Hoat made me
wear it for a pendant. “A man can bear most anything, if he must,” Jaime told
his son. I have smelled a man roasting, as King Aerys cooked him in his own
armor. “The world is full of horrors, Tommen. You can fight them, or laugh at
them, or look without seeing . . . go away inside.”
    Tommen considered that. “I . . . I used to go away inside
sometimes,” he confessed, “when Joffy . . .”
    “Joffrey.” Cersei stood over them, the wind whipping
her skirts around her legs. “Your brother’s name was Joffrey. He would
never have shamed me so.”
    “I never meant to. I wasn’t frightened, Mother. It was only
that your lord father smelled so bad . . .”
    “Do you think he smelled any sweeter to me? I have a nose
too.” She caught his ear and pulled him to his feet. “Lord Tyrell has a nose.
Did you see him retching in the holy sept? Did you see Lady Margaery bawling
like a baby?”
    Jaime got to his feet. “Cersei, enough.”
    Her nostrils flared. “Ser? Why are you here? You swore to
stand vigil over Father until the wake was done, as I recall.”
    “It is done. Go look at him.”
    “No. Seven days and seven nights, you said. Surely the Lord
Commander remembers how to count to seven. Take the number of your fingers,
then add two.”
    Others had begun to stream out onto the plaza, fleeing the
noxious odors in the sept. “Cersei, keep your voice down,” Jaime warned. “Lord
Tyrell is approaching.”
    That reached her. The queen drew Tommen to her side. Mace Tyrell
bowed before them. “His Grace is not unwell, I hope?”
    “The king was overwhelmed by grief,” said Cersei.
    “As are we all. If there is aught that I can do . . .”
    High above, a crow screamed loudly. He was perched on the
statue of King Baelor, shitting on his holy head. “There is much and more you
can do for Tommen, my lord,” Jaime said. “Perhaps you would do Her Grace the
honor of supping with her, after the evening services?”
    Cersei threw him a withering look, but for once she had the
sense to bite her tongue.
    “Sup?” Tyrell seemed taken aback. “I suppose . . . of
course, we should be honored. My lady wife and I.”
    The queen forced a smile and made pleasant noises. But when
Tyrell had taken his leave and Tommen had been sent off with Ser Addam Marbrand,
she turned on Jaime angrily. “Are you drunk or dreaming, ser? Pray tell, why am
I having supper with that grasping fool and his puerile wife?” A gust of wind
stirred her golden hair. “I will not name him Hand, if that’s what—”
    “You need Tyrell,” Jaime broke in, “but not here . Ask
him to capture Storm’s End for Tommen. Flatter him, and tell him you need him
in the field, to replace Father. Mace fancies himself a mighty warrior. Either
he will deliver Storm’s End to you, or he will muck it up and look a fool.
Either way, you win.”
    “Storm’s End?” Cersei looked thoughtful. “Yes, but . . .
Lord Tyrell has made it tediously plain that he will not leave King’s Landing
till Tommen marries Margaery.”
    Jaime sighed. “Then let them wed. It will be years before Tommen
is old enough to consummate the marriage. And until he does, the union can
always be set aside. Give Tyrell his wedding and send him off to play at war.”
    A wary smile crept across his sister’s face. “Even sieges
have their dangers,” she murmured. “Why, our Lord of Highgarden might even lose
his life in such a venture.”
    “There is that risk,” conceded Jaime. “Especially if his
patience runs thin this time, and he elects to storm the gate.”
    Cersei gave him a lingering look. “You know,” she said, “for
a moment you sounded quite like Father.”
    ----

    BRAN
    A
re we there yet?
    Bran never said the words aloud, but they were often on his
lips as their ragged company trudged through groves of ancient oaks and towering
grey-green sentinels, past gloomy soldier pines and bare brown chestnut trees.
Are
we near?
the boy would wonder, as Hodor clambered up a stony slope, or
descended into some dark crevice where drifts of dirty snow cracked beneath his
feet.
How much farther?
he would think, as the great elk
splashed across a half-frozen stream.
How much longer? It’s so cold.
Where is the three-eyed crow?
    Swaying in his