A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

Death’s handmaidens were garbed in soft grey, their faces hooded and shawled so only their eyes could be seen. A host of brothers appeared as well, in robes of brown and butternut and dun and even undyed roughspun, belted with lengths of hempen rope. Some hung the iron hammer of the Smith about their necks, whilst others carried begging bowls.
    None of the devout paid Jaime any mind. They made a circuit of the sept, worshiping at each of the seven altars to honor the seven aspects of the deity. To each god they made sacrifice, to each they sang a hymn. Sweet and solemn rose their voices. Jaime closed his eyes to listen, but opened them again when he began to sway.
I am more weary than I knew.
    It had been years since his last vigil.
And I was younger then, a boy of fifteen years.
He had worn no armor then, only a plain white tunic. The sept where he’d spent the night was not a third as large as any of the Great Sept’s seven transepts. Jaime had laid his sword across the Warrior’s knees, piled his armor at his feet, and knelt upon the rough stone floor before the altar. When dawn came his knees were raw and bloody. “All knights must bleed, Jaime,” Ser Arthur Dayne had said, when he saw. “Blood is the seal of our devotion.” With dawn he tapped him on the shoulder; the pale blade was so sharp that even that light touch cut through Jaime’s tunic, so he bled anew. He never felt it. A boy knelt; a knight rose.
The Young Lion, not the Kingslayer.
    But that was long ago, and the boy was dead.
    He could not have said when the devotions ended. Perhaps he slept, still standing. When the devout had filed out, the Great Sept grew still once more. The candles were a wall of stars burning in the darkness, though the air was rank with death. Jaime shifted his grip upon the golden greatsword. Perhaps he should have let Ser Loras relieve him after all.
Cersei would have hated that.
The Knight of Flowers was still half a boy, arrogant and vain, but he had it in him to be great, to perform deeds worthy of the White Book.
    The White Book would be waiting when this vigil was done, his page open in dumb reproach.
I’ll hack the bloody book to pieces before I’ll fill it full of lies.
Yet if he would not lie, what could he write but truth?
    A woman stood before him.
    It is raining again,
he thought when he saw how wet she was. The water was trickling down her cloak to puddle round her feet.
How did she get here? I never heard her enter.
She was dressed like a tavern wench in a heavy roughspun cloak, badly dyed in mottled browns and fraying at the hem. A hood concealed her face, but he could see the candles dancing in the green pools of her eyes, and when she moved he knew her.
    â€œCersei.” He spoke slowly, like a man waking from a dream, still wondering where he was. “What hour is it?”
    â€œThe hour of the wolf.” His sister lowered her hood, and made a face. “The drowned wolf, perhaps.” She smiled for him, so sweetly. “Do you remember the first time I came to you like this? It was some dismal inn off Weasel Alley, and I put on servant’s garb to get past Father’s guards.”
    â€œI remember. It was Eel Alley.”
She wants something of me.
“Why are you here, at this hour? What would you have of me?” His last word echoed up and down the sept,
mememememememememememe,
fading to a whisper. For a moment he dared to hope that all she wanted was the comfort of his arms.
    â€œSpeak softly.” Her voice sounded strange . . . breathless, almost frightened. “Jaime, Kevan has refused me. He will not serve as Hand, he . . . he knows about us. He said as much.”
    â€œRefused?” That surprised him. “How could he know? He will have read what Stannis wrote, but there is no . . .”
    â€œ
Tyrion
knew,” she reminded him. “Who can say what tales that vile dwarf may have told, or to whom? Uncle Kevan is the least of it. The High Septon . . . Tyrion raised him to the crown, when the fat one died. He may know as well.” She moved closer. “You
must
be Tommen’s Hand. I do not trust Mace Tyrell. What if he had a hand in Father’s death? He may have been conspiring with Tyrion. The Imp could be on his way to Highgarden . . .”
    â€œHe’s not.”
    â€œBe my Hand,” she pleaded, “and we’ll rule the Seven Kingdoms together, like a king and his queen.”
    â€œYou