A Feast for Dragons

have my word on that, my lord.”
    Tyrell gave a grudging nod. “As you say. My Margaery prefers
to be tried by the Faith, so the whole realm can bear witness to her
innocence.”
    If your daughter is as innocent as you’d have us
believe, why must you have your army present when she faces her accusers?
Ser Kevan might have asked. “Soon, I hope,” he said instead, before turning to
Grand Maester Pycelle. “Is there aught else?”
    The Grand Maester consulted his papers. “We should address
the Rosby inheritance. Six claims have been put forth—”
    “We can settle Rosby at some later date. What else?”
    “Preparations should be made for Princess Myrcella.”
    “This is what comes of dealing with the Dornish,” Mace
Tyrell said. “Surely a better match can be found for the girl?”
    Such as your own son Willas, perhaps? Her disfigured
by one Dornishman, him crippled by another?
“No doubt,” Ser Kevan
said, “but we have enemies enough without offending Dorne. If Doran Martell
were to join his strength to Connington’s in support of this feigned dragon,
things could go very ill for all of us.”
    “Mayhaps we can persuade our Dornish friends to deal with
Lord Connington,” Ser Harys Swyft said with an irritating titter. “That would
save a deal of blood and trouble.”
    “It would,” Ser Kevan said wearily. Time to put an end to
this. “Thank you, my lords. Let us convene again five days hence. After
Cersei’s trial.”
    “As you say. May the Warrior lend strength to Ser Robert’s
arms.” The words were grudging, the dip of the chin Mace Tyrell gave the Lord
Regent the most cursory of bows. But it was something, and for that much Ser
Kevan Lannister was grateful.
    Randyll Tarly left the hall with his liege lord, their
green-cloaked spearmen right behind them.
Tarly is the real danger
,
Ser Kevan reflected as he watched their departure.
A narrow man, but
iron-willed and shrewd, and as good a soldier as the Reach could boast. But how
do I win him to our side?
    “Lord Tyrell loves me not,” Grand Maester Pycelle said in
gloomy tones when the Hand had departed. “This matter of the moon
tea … I would never have spoken of such, but the Queen Dowager
commanded me! If it please the Lord Regent, I would sleep more soundly if you
could lend me some of your guards.”
    “Lord Tyrell might take that amiss.”
    Ser Harys Swyft tugged at his chin beard. “I am in need of
guards myself. These are perilous times.”
    Aye, thought Kevan Lannister,
and Pycelle is not the
only council member our Hand would like to replace
. Mace Tyrell had
his own candidate for lord treasurer: his uncle, Lord Seneschal of Highgarden,
whom men called Garth the Gross.
The last thing I need is another Tyrell
on the small council
. He was already outnumbered. Ser Harys was his
wife’s father, and Pycelle could be counted upon as well. But Tarly was sworn
to Highgarden, as was Paxter Redwyne, lord admiral and master of ships,
presently sailing his fleet around Dorne to deal with Euron Greyjoy’s ironmen.
Once Redwyne returned to King’s Landing, the council would stand at three and
three, Lannister and Tyrell.
    The seventh voice would be the Dornishwoman now escorting
Myrcella home.
The Lady Nym. But no lady, if even half of what Qyburn
reports is true
. A bastard daughter of the Red Viper, near as
notorious as her father and intent on claiming the council seat that Prince
Oberyn himself had occupied so briefly. Ser Kevan had not yet seen fit to
inform Mace Tyrell of her coming. The Hand, he knew, would not be pleased.
The
man we need is Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish had a gift for conjuring dragons
from the air
.
    “Hire the Mountain’s men,” Ser Kevan suggested. “Red Ronnet
will have no further use for them.” He did not think that Mace Tyrell would be
so clumsy as to try to murder either Pycelle or Swyft, but if guards made them
feel safer, let them have guards.
    The three men walked together from the throne room. Outside
the snow was swirling round the outer ward, a caged beast howling to be free.
“Have you ever felt such cold?” asked Ser Harys.
    “The time to speak of the cold,” said Grand Maester Pycelle,
“is not when we are standing out in it.” He made his slow way across the outer
ward, back to his chambers.
    The others lingered for a moment on the throne room steps.
“I put no faith in these Myrish bankers,” Ser Kevan told his good-father. “You
had best prepare to go to Braavos.”
    Ser