A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

would do me the honor of sharing my litter.” Things were moving more quickly than she had anticipated; there was no time to be squandered.
    Tommen was happy at the prospect of a ride, and of course Lord Gyles was honored by her invitation . . . though when she asked him to be her master of coin, he began coughing so violently that she feared he might die right then and there. But the Mother was merciful, and Gyles eventually recover sufficiently to accept, and even began coughing out the names of men he wanted to replace, customs officers and wool factors appointed by Littlefinger, even one of the keepers of the keys.
    â€œName the cow what you will, so long as the milk flows. And should the question arise, you joined the council yesterday.”
    â€œYester—” A fit of coughing bent him over. “Yesterday. To be sure.” Lord Gyles coughed into a square of red silk, as if to hide the blood in his spittle. Cersei pretended not to notice. She did not think that he would be her master of coin for very long.
When he dies I will find someone else.
Perhaps she would recall Littlefinger. The queen could not imagine that Petyr Baelish would be allowed to remain Lord Protector of the Vale for very long, with Lysa Arryn dead. The Vale lords were already stirring, if what Pycelle said was true.
They will take that wretched boy away from him, and he will come crawling back.
    â€œYour,
kaf,
Grace?” Lord Gyles dabbed his mouth. “Might I,
kaf,
ask,
kaf kaf,
who will be,
kaf,
the King’s Hand?”
    â€œMy uncle,” she replied absently.
    It was a relief to see the gates of the Red Keep looming large before her. She gave Tommen over to the charge of his squires, and retired gratefully to her own chambers to rest.
    No sooner had she eased off her shoes than Jocelyn entered timidly to say that Qyburn was without and craved audience. “Send him in,” the queen commanded.
A ruler gets no rest.
    Qyburn was old, but his hair still had more ash than snow in it, and the laugh lines around his mouth made him look like some little girl’s favorite grandfather.
A rather shabby grandfather, though.
The collar of his robe was frayed, and one sleeve had been torn and badly sewn. “Your Grace,” he began, “I have examined Ser Gregor Clegane, as you commanded. The poison on the Viper’s spear was manticore venom from the east, I would stake my life on that.”
    â€œPycelle says no. He told my lord father that manticore venom kills the instant it reaches the heart.”
    â€œAnd so it does. But this venom has been
thickened
somehow so as to draw out the Mountain’s dying.”
    â€œThickened? Thickened
how
? With some other substance?”
    â€œIt may be as Your Grace suggests, though in most cases adulterating a poison only lessens its potency. It may be that the cause is . . . less natural, let us say. A spell, I think.”
    Is this one as big a fool as Pycelle?
“So are you telling me that the Mountain is dying of some black
sorcery
?”
    Qyburn ignored the mockery in her voice. “He is dying of the venom, but slowly, and in exquisite agony. My efforts to ease his pain have proved as fruitless as Pycelle’s. Ser Gregor is overly accustomed to the poppy, I fear. His squire tells me that he is plagued by blinding headaches and oft quaffs the milk of the poppy as lesser men quaff ale. Be that as it may, his veins have turned black from head to heel, his water is clouded with pus, and the venom has eaten a hole in his side as large as my fist. It is a wonder that the man is still alive, if truth be told.”
    â€œHis size,” the queen suggested, frowning. “Gregor is a very large man. Also a very stupid one. Too stupid to know when he should die, it seems.” She held out her cup, and Senelle filled it once again. “The Dornishmen want his head, and his screaming frightens Tommen. It has even been known to wake me of a night. I would say it is past time we summoned Ilyn Payn.”
    â€œYour Grace,” said Qyburn, “mayhaps I might move Ser Gregor to the dungeons? His screams will not disturb you there, and I will be able to tend to him more freely.”
    â€œTend to him?” She laughed. “Let Ser Ilyn tend to him.”
    â€œIf that is Your Grace’s wish,” Qyburn said, “but this poison . . . it would be useful to know more about it, would it not? Send a knight to slay a knight and an