A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

her children, and no captain should outlive his ship.” Pycelle had taken the rebuke with ill grace.
    He seemed less choleric today, and even managed a sort of tremulous smile. “Your Grace, glad tidings,” he announced. “Wyman Manderly has done as you commanded, and beheaded Lord Stannis’s onion knight.”
    â€œWe know this for a certainty?”
    â€œThe man’s head and hands have been mounted above the walls of White Harbor. Lord Wyman avows this, and the Freys confirm. They have seen the head there, with an onion in its mouth. And the hands, one marked by his shortened fingers.”
    â€œVery good,” said Cersei. “Send a bird to Manderly and inform him that his son will be returned forthwith, now that he has demonstrated his loyalty.” White Harbor would soon return to the king’s peace, and Roose Bolton and his bastard son were closing in on Moat Cailin from south and north. Once the Moat was theirs, they would join their strength and clear the ironmen out of Torrhen’s Square and Deepwood Motte as well. That should win them the allegiance of Ned Stark’s remaining bannermen when the time came to march against Lord Stannis.
    To the south, meanwhile, Mace Tyrell had raised a city of tents outside Storm’s End and had two dozen mangonels flinging stones against the castle’s massive walls, thus far to small effect.
Lord Tyrell the warrior,
the queen mused.
His sigil ought to be a fat man sitting on his arse.
    That afternoon the dour Braavosi envoy turned up for his audience. Cersei had put him off for a fortnight and would have gladly put him off another year, but Lord Gyles claimed he could no longer deal with the man . . . though the queen was starting to wonder if Gyles was capable of doing
anything
but coughing.
    Noho Dimittis, the Braavosi named himself.
An irritating name for an irritating man.
His voice was irritating too. Cersei shifted in her seat as he went on, wondering how long she must endure his hectoring. Behind her loomed the Iron Throne, its barbs and blades throwing twisted shadows across the floor. Only the king or his Hand could sit upon the throne itself. Cersei sat by its foot, in a seat of gilded wood piled with crimson cushions.
    When the Braavosi paused for breath, she saw her chance. “This is more properly a matter for our lord treasurer.”
    That answer did not please the noble Noho, it would seem. “I have spoken with Lord Gyles six times. He coughs at me and makes excuses, Your Grace, but the gold is not forthcoming.”
    â€œSpeak to him a seventh time,” Cersei suggested pleasantly. “The number seven is sacred to our gods.”
    â€œIt pleases Your Grace to make a jest, I see.”
    â€œWhen I make a jest I smile. Do you see me smiling? Do you hear laughter? I assure you, when I make a jest, men laugh.”
    â€œKing Robert—”
    â€œâ€”is dead,” she said sharply. “The Iron Bank will have its gold when this rebellion has been put down.”
    He had the insolence to scowl at her. “Your Grace—”
    â€œThis audience is at an end.” Cersei had suffered quite enough for one day. “Ser Meryn, show the noble Noho Dimittis to the door. Ser Osmund, you may escort me back to my apartments.” Her guests would soon arrive, and she had to bathe and change. Supper promised to be a tedious affair as well. It was hard work to rule a kingdom, much less seven of them.
    Ser Osmund Kettleblack fell in beside her on the steps, tall and lean in his Kingsguard whites. When Cersei was certain they were quite alone, she slid her arm through his. “How is your little brother faring, pray?”
    Ser Osmund looked uneasy. “Ah . . . well enough, only . . .”
    â€œ
Only?
” The queen let a hint of anger edge her words. “I must confess, I am running short of patience with dear Osney. It is past time he broke in that little filly. I named him Tommen’s sworn shield so he could spend part of every day in Margaery’s company. He should have plucked the rose by now. Is the little queen blind to his charms?”
    â€œHis charms is fine. He’s a Kettleblack, ain’t he? Begging your pardon.” Ser Osmund ran his fingers through his oily black hair. “It’s her that’s the trouble.”
    â€œAnd why is that?” The queen had begun to nurse doubts about Ser Osney. Perhaps another man would have been more to