A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

with felt, to make a fitting presentation for the skull.”
    â€œA cloth sack would serve as well. Prince Doran wants his head. He won’t give a fig what sort of box it comes in.”
    The pealing of the bells was louder in the yard.
He was only a High Septon. How long must we endure this?
The ringing was more melodious than the Mountain’s screams had been, but . . .
    Qyburn seemed to sense what she was thinking. “The bells will stop at sunset, Your Grace.”
    â€œThat will be a great relief. How can you know?”
    â€œKnowing is the nature of my service.”
    Varys had all of us believing he was irreplaceable. What fools we were.
Once the queen let it become known that Qyburn had taken the eunuch’s place, the usual vermin had wasted no time in making themselves known to him, to trade their whispers for a few coins.
It was the silver all along, not the Spider. Qyburn will serve us just as well.
She was looking forward to the look on Pycelle’s face when Qyburn took his seat.
    A knight of the Kingsguard was always posted outside the doors of the council chambers when the small council was in session. Today it was Ser Boros Blount. “Ser Boros,” the queen said pleasantly, “you look quite grey this morning. Something you ate, perchance?” Jaime had made him the king’s food taster.
A tasty task, but shameful for a knight.
Blount hated it. His sagging jowls quivered as he held the door for them.
    The councillors quieted as she entered. Lord Gyles coughed by way of greeting, loud enough to wake Pycelle. The others rose, mouthing pleasantries. Cersei allowed herself the faintest of smiles. “My lords, I know you will forgive my lateness.”
    â€œWe are here to serve Your Grace,” said Ser Harys Swyft. “It is our pleasure to anticipate your coming.”
    â€œYou all know Lord Qyburn, I am sure.”
    Grand Maester Pycelle did not disappoint her. “
Lord
Qyburn?” he managed, purpling. “Your Grace, this . . . a maester swears sacred vows, to hold no lands or lordships . . .”
    â€œYour Citadel took away his chain,” Cersei reminded him. “If he is not a maester, he cannot be held to a maester’s vows. We called the eunuch
lord
as well, you may recall.”
    Pycelle sputtered. “This man is . . . he is unfit . . .”
    â€œDo not presume to speak to me of
fitness.
Not after the stinking mockery you made of my lord father’s corpse.”
    â€œYour Grace cannot think . . .” He raised a spotted hand, as if to ward off a blow. “The silent sisters removed Lord Tywin’s bowels and organs, drained his blood . . . every care was taken . . . his body was stuffed with salts and fragrant herbs . . .”
    â€œOh, spare me the disgusting details. I smelled the results of your
care.
Lord Qyburn’s healing arts saved my brother’s life, and I do not doubt that he will serve the king more ably than that simpering eunuch. My lord, you know your fellow councillors?”
    â€œI would be a poor informer if I did not, Your Grace.” Qyburn seated himself between Orton Merryweather and Gyles Rosby.
    My councillors.
Cersei had uprooted every rose, and all those beholden to her uncle and her brothers. In their places were men whose loyalty would be to her. She had even given them new styles, borrowed from the Free Cities; the queen would have no “masters” at court beside herself. Orton Merryweather was her justiciar, Gyles Rosby her lord treasurer. Aurane Waters, the dashing young Bastard of Driftmark, would be her grand admiral.
    And for her Hand, Ser Harys Swyft.
    Soft, bald, and obsequious, Swyft had an absurd little white puff of beard where most men had a chin. The blue bantam rooster of his House was worked across the front of his plush yellow doublet in beads of lapis. Over that he wore a mantle of blue velvet decorated with a hundred golden hands. Ser Harys had been thrilled by his appointment, too dim to realize that he was more hostage than Hand. His daughter was her uncle’s wife, and Kevan loved his chinless lady, flat-chested and chicken-legged as she was. So long as she had Ser Harys in hand, Kevan Lannister must needs think twice about opposing her.
To be sure, a good-father is not the ideal hostage, but better a flimsy shield than none.
    â€œWill the king be joining us?” asked Orton Merryweather.
    â€œMy son is playing with his little queen. For the