A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

a smudge of dirt on his lip.
She used to threaten to scrub it off with a little spit. “The riverlands have need of a strong hand,” Lancel added.
    A pity that they’re getting such a feeble one,
she wanted to say. Instead she smiled. “And you are to be wed as well.”
    A gloomy look passed across the young knight’s ravaged face. “A Frey girl, and not of my choosing. She is not even maiden. A widow, of Darry blood. My father says that will help me with the peasants, but the peasants are all dead.” He reached for her hand, looking as if he might burst into tears. “It is cruel, Cersei. Your Grace knows that I love—”
    â€œâ€”House Lannister,” she finished for him. “No one can doubt that, Lancel. May your wife give you strong sons.”
Best not let her father host the wedding, though.
“I know you will do many noble deeds in Darry.”
    Lancel nodded, plainly miserable. “When it seemed that I might die, my father brought the High Septon to pray for me. He is a good man, Cersei. He says the Mother spared me for some holy purpose, so I might atone for my sins.” His eyes were wet and shiny, a child’s eyes in an old man’s face.
    Cersei wondered how he intended to atone for her.
Mine own blood,
she thought, disgusted. Was she the only lion left alive?
Knighting him was a mistake, and bedding him a bigger one.
Lancel was a weak reed, and she liked this newfound piety of his not at all; he had been much more amusing when he was trying to be Jaime.
What has this mewling fool told the High Septon? And what will he tell his little Frey when they lay together in the dark?
If he wished to boast of bedding a queen, well, men were always lying about women. She would put it down as the braggadocio of a callow boy smitten by unrequited love.
But if he sings of Robert and the strongwine . . .
“Atonement is best achieved through prayer,” Cersei told her cousin pointedly. “
Silent
prayer.” She left him to think about that, and girded herself to face the Tyrell host.
    Margaery embraced her like a sister, which the queen found presumptuous, but this was not the place to reproach her. Lady Alerie and the cousins contended themselves with kissing fingers. Lady Graceford, who was large with child, asked the queen’s leave to name it Tywin if it were a boy, or Lanna if it were a girl.
Lickspittles like you will drown the realm in Tywins,
she reflected, but she graciously gave consent, feigning delight.
    Lady Merryweather was the only one who truly pleased her. “Your Grace,” she said, in her sultry Myrish tones, “I have sent word to my friends across the narrow sea, asking them to seize the Imp at once should he show his ugly face in the Free Cities.”
    â€œDo you have many friends across the water?”
    â€œIn Myr, many. In Lys as well, and Tyrosh. Men of power.”
    Cersei could well believe it. The Myrish woman was too beautiful by half; long-legged and full-breasted, with smooth olive skin, ripe lips, huge dark eyes, and thick black hair that always looked as if she’d just come from bed.
She even smells like sin, like some exotic lotus.
“Lord Merryweather and I wish only to serve Your Grace and the little king,” the woman said, with a look that was as pregnant as Lady Graceford.
    This one is ambitious, and her lord is proud but poor.
“We must speak again, my lady. Taena, is it? You are most kind. I know that we shall be great friends.”
    And then the Lord of Highgarden himself fell upon her.
    Mace Tyrell was no more than ten years older than Cersei, yet she thought of him as her father’s age, not her own. He was not quite so tall as Lord Tywin had been, but elsewise he was bigger, with a thick chest and a gut that had grown even thicker. His hair was chestnut colored and his eyes looked a bit like chestnuts too, but there were specks of white and grey in his beard. His face was often red. “Lord Tywin was a great man, and will be greatly missed,” he declared ponderously after he had kissed both her cheeks. “No man alive is fit to don his armor, that is plain. We all grieve for him.”
    â€œMy lord is good to say so.”
    â€œIf there is aught that I might do to serve in this dark hour, Your Grace need only ask.”
    If you want to be Hand, my lord, at least have the courage to say it plainly.
The queen smiled at him warmly.
Let him read into that