A Feast for Dragons

persuaded to relent, he would
have no choice but to pay the crown’s debts with Lannister gold. He dare not
resort to new taxes, not with the Seven Kingdoms crawling with rebellion. Half
the lords in the realm could not tell taxation from tyranny, and would bolt to
the nearest usurper in a heartbeat if it would save them a clipped copper. “If
that fails, you may well need to go to Braavos, to treat with the Iron Bank
yourself.”
    Ser Harys quailed. “Must I?”
    “You
are
the master of coin,” Lord Randyll
said sharply.
    “I am.” The puff of white hair at the end of Swyft’s chin
quivered in outrage. “Must I remind my lord, this trouble is not of my doing?
And not all of us have had the opportunity to refill our coffers with the
plunder of Maidenpool and Dragonstone.”
    “I resent your implication, Swyft,” Mace Tyrell said,
bristling. “No wealth was found on Dragonstone, I promise you. My son’s men
have searched every inch of that damp and dreary island and turned up not so
much as a single gemstone or speck of gold. Nor any sign of this fabled hoard
of dragon eggs.”
    Kevan Lannister had seen Dragonstone with his own eyes. He
doubted very much that Loras Tyrell had searched every inch of that ancient
stronghold. The Valyrians had raised it, after all, and all their works stank
of sorcery. And Ser Loras was young, prone to all the rash judgments of youth,
and had been grievously wounded storming the castle besides. But it would not
do to remind Tyrell that his favorite son was fallible. “If there was wealth on
Dragonstone, Stannis would have found it,” he declared. “Let us move along, my
lords. We have two queens to try for high treason, you may recall. My niece has
elected trial by battle, she informs me. Ser Robert Strong will champion her.”
    “The silent giant.” Lord Randyll grimaced.
    “Tell me, ser, where did this man come from?” demanded Mace
Tyrell. “Why have we never heard his name before? He does not speak, he will
not show his face, he is never seen without his armor. Do we know for a
certainty that he is even a knight?”
    We do not even know if he’s alive
. Meryn
Trant claimed that Strong took neither food nor drink, and Boros Blount went so
far as to say he had never seen the man use the privy.
Why should he?
Dead men do not shit
. Kevan Lannister had a strong suspicion of just
who this Ser Robert really was beneath that gleaming white armor. A suspicion
that Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly no doubt shared. Whatever the face hidden
behind Strong’s helm, it must remain hidden for now. The silent giant was his
niece’s only hope.
And pray that he is as formidable as he appears
.
    But Mace Tyrell could not seem to see beyond the threat to his
own daughter. “His Grace named Ser Robert to the Kingsguard,” Ser Kevan
reminded him, “and Qyburn vouches for the man as well. Be that as it may, we
need Ser Robert to prevail, my lords. If my niece is proved guilty of these
treasons, the legitimacy of her children will be called into question. If
Tommen ceases to be a king, Margaery will cease to be a queen.” He let Tyrell
chew on that a moment. “Whatever Cersei may have done, she is still a daughter
of the Rock, of mine own blood. I will not let her die a traitor’s death, but I
have made sure to draw her fangs. All her guards have been dismissed and
replaced with my own men. In place of her former ladies-in-waiting, she will
henceforth be attended by a septa and three novices selected by the High Septon.
She is to have no further voice in the governance of the realm, nor in Tommen’s
education. I mean to return her to Casterly Rock after the trial and see that
she remains there. Let that suffice.”
    The rest he left unsaid. Cersei was soiled goods now, her
power at an end. Every baker’s boy and beggar in the city had seen her in her
shame and every tart and tanner from Flea Bottom to Pisswater Bend had gazed
upon her nakedness, their eager eyes crawling over her breasts and belly and
woman’s parts. No queen could expect to rule again after that. In gold and silk
and emeralds Cersei had been a queen, the next thing to a goddess; naked, she
was only human, an aging woman with stretch marks on her belly and teats that
had begun to sag … as the shrews in the crowds had been glad to point
out to their husbands and lovers.
Better to live
shamed
than die proud
, Ser Kevan told himself. “My niece will make no further
mischief,” he promised Mace Tyrell. “You