A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

know that under that stinking chamber pot was a loose stone, which opened on a small hollow? The sort of place where a man might hide valuables that he did not wish to be discovered?”
    â€œValuables?” This was new. “Coin, you mean?” She had suspected all along that Tyrion had somehow bought this gaoler.
    â€œBeyond a doubt. To be sure, the hole was empty when I found it. No doubt Rugen took his ill-gotten treasure with him when he fled. But as I crouched over the hole with my torch, I saw something glitter, so I scratched in the dirt until I dug it out.” Qyburn opened his palm. “A gold coin.”
    Gold, yes, but the moment Cersei took it she could tell that it was wrong.
Too small,
she thought,
too thin.
The coin was old and worn. On one side was a king’s face in profile, on the other side the imprint of a hand. “This is no dragon,” she said.
    â€œNo,” Qyburn agreed. “It dates from before the Conquest, Your Grace. The king is Garth the Twelfth, and the hand is the sigil of House Gardener.”
    Of Highgarden.
Cersei closed her hand around the coin.
What treachery is this?
Mace Tyrell had been one of Tyrion’s judges, and had called loudly for his death.
Was that some ploy? Could he have been plotting with the Imp all the while, conspiring at Father’s death?
With Tywin Lannister in his grave, Lord Tyrell was an obvious choice to be King’s Hand, but even so . . . “You will not speak of this with anyone,” she commanded.
    â€œYour Grace may trust in my discretion. Any man who rides with a sellsword company learns to hold his tongue, else he does not keep it long.”
    â€œIn my company as well.” The queen put the coin away. She would think about it later. “What of the other matter?”
    â€œSer Gregor.” Qyburn shrugged. “I have examined him, 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. “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 Payne.”
    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 archer to kill an archer, the smallfolk often say. To combat the black arts . . .” He did not finish the thought, but only smiled at her.
    He is not Pycelle, that much is plain.
The queen weighed him, wondering. “Why did the Citadel take your chain?”
    â€œThe archmaesters are all craven at heart. The grey sheep, Marwyn calls them. I was as skilled a healer as Ebrose, but aspired to surpass him. For hundreds of years the men of the Citadel have opened