A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

gnawing at a hunter’s moon, and wondered for a moment how many Hands of how many kings had made their home there over the past three centuries.
    A hundred yards from the tower, she took a breath to stop her head from spinning. “Lord Hallyne! You may commence.”
    Hallyne the pyromancer said
“Hmmmmmm”
and waved the torch he was holding, and the archers on the walls bent their bows and sent a dozen flaming arrows through the gaping windows.
    The tower went up with a
whoosh.
In half a heartbeat its interior was alive with light, red, yellow, orange . . . and green, an ominous dark green, the color of bile and jade and pyromancer’s piss. “The substance,” the alchemists named it, but common folk called it
wildfire.
Fifty pots had been placed inside the Tower of the Hand, along with logs and casks of pitch and the greater part of the worldly possessions of a dwarf named Tyrion Lannister.
    The queen could feel the heat of those green flames. The pyromancers said that only three things burned hotter than their substance: dragonflame, the fires beneath the earth, and the summer sun. Some of the ladies gasped when the first flames appeared in the windows, licking up the outer walls like long green tongues. Others cheered, and made toasts.
    It is beautiful,
she thought,
as beautiful as Joffrey, when they laid him in my arms.
No man had ever made her feel as good as she had felt when he took her nipple in his mouth to nurse.
    Tommen stared wide-eyed at the fires, as fascinated as he was frightened, until Margaery whispered something in his ear that made him laugh. Some of the knights began to make wagers on how long it would be before the tower collapsed. Lord Hallyne stood humming to himself and rocking on his heels.
    Cersei thought of all the King’s Hands that she had known through the years: Owen Merryweather, Jon Connington, Qarlton Chelsted, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, her brother Tyrion. And her father, Lord Tywin Lannister, her father most of all.
All of them are burning now,
she told herself, savoring the thought.
They are dead and burning, every one, with all their plots and schemes and betrayals. It is my day now. It is my castle and my kingdom.
    The Tower of the Hand gave out a sudden groan, so loud that all the conversation stopped abruptly. Stone cracked and split, and part of the upper battlements fell away and landed with a crash that shook the hill, sending up a cloud of dust and smoke. As fresh air rushed in through the broken masonry, the fire surged upward. Green flames leapt into the sky and whirled around each other. Tommen shied away, till Margaery took his hand and said, “Look, the flames are dancing. Just as we did, my love.”
    â€œThey are.” His voice was filled with wonder. “Mother, look, they’re dancing.”
    â€œI see them. Lord Hallyne, how long will the fires burn?”
    â€œAll night, Your Grace.”
    â€œIt makes a pretty candle, I grant you,” said Lady Olenna Tyrell, leaning on her cane between Left and Right. “Bright enough to see us safe to sleep, I think. Old bones grow weary, and these young ones have had enough excitement for one night. It is time the king and queen were put to bed.”
    â€œYes.” Cersei beckoned to Jaime. “Lord Commander, escort His Grace and his little queen to their pillows, if you would.”
    â€œAs you command. And you as well?”
    â€œNo need.” Cersei felt too alive for sleep. The wildfire was cleansing her, burning away all her rage and fear, filling her with resolve. “The flames are so pretty. I want to watch them for a while.”
    Jaime hesitated. “You should not stay alone.”
    â€œI will not be alone. Ser Osmund can remain with me and keep me safe. Your Sworn Brother.”
    â€œIf it please Your Grace,” said Kettleblack.
    â€œIt does.” Cersei slid her arm through his, and side by side they watched the fire rage.

THE SOILED KNIGHT
    T he night was unseasonably cool, even for autumn. A brisk wet wind was swirling down the alleys, stirring up the day’s dust.
A north wind, and full of chill.
Ser Arys Oakheart pulled up his hood to cover his face. It would not do for him to be recognized. A fortnight past, a trader had been butchered in the shadow city, a harmless man who’d come to Dorne for fruit and found death instead of dates. His only crime was being from King’s Landing.
    The mob would find a sterner foe