A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

Robert’s. For that alone, she hated him. “It is easy to see why you are Lady Margaery’s favorite.”
    â€œHer Grace is kind. She says I give her pleasure.”
    â€œOh, I’m certain of it. Might I see your lute?”
    â€œIf it please Your Grace.” Beneath the courtesy, there was a faint hint of unease, but he handed her the lute all the same. One does not refuse the queen’s request.
    Cersei plucked a string and smiled at the sound. “Sweet and sad as love. Tell me, Wat . . . the first time you took Margaery to bed, was that before she wed my son, or after?”
    For a moment he did not seem to understand. When he did, his eyes grew large. “Your Grace has been misinformed. I swear to you, I never—”
    â€œLiar!”
Cersei smashed the lute across the singer’s face so hard the painted wood exploded into shards and splinters. “Lord Orton, summon my guards and take this creature to the dungeons.”
    Orton Merryweather’s face was damp with fear. “This . . . oh, infamy . . . he dared seduce
the queen
?”
    â€œI fear it was the other way around, but he is a traitor all the same. Let him sing for Lord Qyburn.”
    The Blue Bard went white. “No.” Blood dripped from his lip where the lute had torn it. “I never . . .” When Merryweather seized him by the arm, he screamed,
“Mother have mercy, no.”
    â€œI am not your mother,” Cersei told him.
    Even in the black cells, all they got from him were denials, prayers, and pleas for mercy. Before long, blood was streaming down his chin from all his broken teeth, and he wet his dark blue breeches three times over, yet still the man persisted in his lies. “Is it possible we have the wrong singer?” Cersei asked.
    â€œAll things are possible, Your Grace. Have no fear. The man will confess before the night is done.” Down here in the dungeons, Qyburn wore roughspun wool and a blacksmith’s leather apron. To the Blue Bard he said, “I am sorry if the guards were rough with you. Their courtesies are sadly lacking.” His voice was kind, solicitous. “All we want from you is the truth.”
    â€œI’ve told you the truth,” the singer sobbed. Iron shackles held him hard against the cold stone wall.
    â€œWe know better.” Qyburn had a razor in his hand, its edge gleaming faintly in the torchlight. He cut away the Blue Bard’s clothing, until the man was naked but for his high blue boots. The hair between his legs was brown, Cersei was amused to see. “Tell us how you pleasured the little queen,” she commanded.
    â€œI never . . . I sang, was all, I sang and played. Her ladies will tell you. They were always with us. Her cousins.”
    â€œHow many of them did you have carnal knowledge of?”
    â€œNone of them. I’m just a singer. Please.”
    Qyburn said, “Your Grace, mayhaps this poor man only played for Margaery whilst she entertained other lovers.”
    â€œNo.
Please.
She never . . . I
sang,
I only
sang . . .”
    Lord Qyburn ran a hand up the Blue Bard’s chest. “Does she take your nipples in her mouth during your love play?” He took one between his thumb and forefinger, and twisted. “Some men enjoy that. Their nipples are as sensitive as a woman’s.” The razor flashed, the singer shrieked. On his chest a wet red eye wept blood. Cersei felt ill. Part of her wanted to close her eyes, to turn away, to make it stop. But she was the queen and this was treason.
Lord Tywin would not have turned away.
    In the end the Blue Bard told them his whole life, back to his first name day. His father had been a chandler and Wat was raised to that trade, but as a boy he found he had more skill at making lutes than barrels. When he was twelve he ran off to join a troupe of musicians he had heard performing at a fair. He had wandered half the Reach before coming to King’s Landing in hopes of finding favor at court.
    â€œFavor?” Qyburn chuckled. “Is that what women call it now? I fear you found too much of it, my friend . . . and from the wrong queen. The true one stands before you.”
    Yes.
Cersei blamed Margaery Tyrell for this. If not for her, Wat might have lived a long and fruitful life, singing his little songs and bedding pig girls and crofter’s daughters.
Her scheming forced this on me. She has soiled me with her treachery.
    By dawn the