A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

smallclothes. Another septa tossed a roughspun shift at her. “You cannot do this,” the queen kept screaming at them. “I am a Lannister, unhand me, my brother will kill you, Jaime will slice you open from throat to cunt,
unhand me
! I am
the queen
!”
    â€œThe queen should pray,” said Septa Scolera, before they left her naked in the cold bleak cell.
    She was not meek Margaery Tyrell, to don her little shift and submit to such captivity.
I will teach them what it means to put a lion in a cage,
Cersei thought. She tore the shift into a hundred pieces, found a ewer of water and smashed it against the wall, then did the same with the chamber pot. When no one came, she began to pound on the door with her fists. Her escort was below, on the plaza: ten Lannister guardsmen and Ser Boros Blount.
Once they hear they’ll come free me, and we’ll drag the bloody High Sparrow back to the Red Keep in chains.
    She screamed and kicked and howled until her throat was raw, at the door and at the window. No one shouted back, nor came to rescue her. The cell began to darken. It was growing cold as well. Cersei began to shiver.
How can they leave me like this, without so much as a fire? I am their queen.
She began to regret tearing apart the shift they’d given her. There was a blanket on the pallet in the corner, a threadbare thing of thin brown wool. It was rough and scratchy, but it was all she had. Cersei huddled underneath to keep from shivering, and before long she had fallen into an exhausted sleep.
    The next she knew, a heavy hand was shaking her awake. It was black as pitch inside the cell, and a huge ugly woman was kneeling over her, a candle in her hand. “Who are you?” the queen demanded. “Are you come to set me free?”
    â€œI am Septa Unella. I am come to hear you tell of all your murders and fornications.”
    Cersei knocked her hand aside. “I will have your head. Do not presume to touch me. Get away.”
    The woman rose. “Your Grace. I will be back in an hour. Mayhaps by then you will be ready to confess.”
    An hour and an hour and an hour. So passed the longest night that Cersei Lannister had ever known, save for the night of Joffrey’s wedding. Her throat was so raw from shouting that she could hardly swallow. The cell turned freezing cold. She had smashed the chamber pot, so she had to squat in a corner to make her water and watch it trickle across the floor. Every time she closed her eyes, Unella was looming over her again, shaking her and asking her if she wanted to confess her sins.
    Day brought no relief. Septa Moelle brought her a bowl of some waterly grey gruel as the sun was coming up. Cersei flung it at her head. When they brought a fresh ewer of water, though, she was so thirsty that she had no choice but to drink. When they brought another shift, grey and thin and smelling of mildew, she put it on over her nakedness. And that evening when Moelle appeared again she ate the bread and fish and demanded wine to wash it down. No wine appeared, only Septa Unella, making her hourly visit to ask if the queen was ready to confess.
    What can be happening?
Cersei wondered, as the thin slice of sky outside her window began to darken once again.
Why has no one come to pry me out of here?
She could not believe that the Kettleblacks would abandon their brother. What was her council doing?
Cravens and traitors. When I get out of here I will have the lot of them beheaded and find better men to take their place.
    Thrice that day she heard the sound of distant shouting drifting up from the plaza, but it was Margaery’s name that the mob was calling, not hers.
    It was near dawn on the second day and Cersei was licking the last of the porridge from the bottom of the bowl when her cell door swung open unexpectedly to admit Lord Qyburn. It was all she could do not to throw herself at him. “Qyburn,” she whispered, “oh, gods, I am so glad to see your face. Take me home.”
    â€œThat will not be allowed. You are to be tried before a holy court of seven, for murder, treason, and fornication.”
    Cersei was so exhausted that the words seemed nonsensical to her at first. “Tommen. Tell me of my son. Is he still king?”
    â€œHe is, Your Grace. He is safe and well, secure within the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, protected by the Kingsguard. He is lonely, though. Fretful. He asks for you, and for his little queen. As yet, no