A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head.
Sansa would never make that mistake again.

TYRION
    I n the chilly white raiment of the Kingsguard, Ser Mandon Moore looked like
a corpse in a shroud. “Her Grace left orders, the council in session is not to
be disturbed.”
    â€œI would be only a small disturbance, ser.” Tyrion slid the parchment from
his sleeve. “I bear a letter from my father, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Hand of
the King. There is his seal.”
    â€œHer Grace does not wish to be disturbed,” Ser Mandon repeated slowly,
as if Tyrion were a dullard who had not heard him the first time.
    Jaime had once told him that Moore was the most dangerous of the
Kingsguard—excepting himself, always—because his face gave no
hint as what he might do next. Tyrion would have welcomed a hint. Bronn and
Timett could likely kill the knight if it came to swords, but it would scarcely
bode well if he began by slaying one of Joffrey’s protectors. Yet if he let the
man turn him away, where was his authority? He made himself smile. “Ser
Mandon, you have not met my companions. This is Timett son of Timett, a red
hand of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn. Perchance you recall Ser Vardis
Egen, who was captain of Lord Arryn’s household guard?”
    â€œI know the man.” Ser Mandon’s eyes were pale grey, oddly flat and
lifeless.
    â€œKnew,” Bronn corrected with a thin smile.
    Ser Mandon did not deign to show that he had heard that.
    â€œBe that as it may,” Tyrion said lightly, “I truly must see my sister and
present my letter, ser. If you would be so kind as to open the door for
us?”
    The white knight did not respond. Tyrion was almost at the point of trying to
force his way past when Ser Mandon abruptly stood aside. “You may enter. They
may not.”
    A small victory,
he thought,
but sweet.
He had passed his
first test. Tyrion Lannister shouldered through the door, feeling almost tall.
Five members of the king’s small council broke off their discussion suddenly.
“You,” his sister Cersei said in a tone that was equal parts disbelief and
distaste.
    â€œI can see where Joffrey learned his courtesies.” Tyrion paused to admire the
pair of Valyrian sphinxes that guarded the door, affecting an air of casual
confidence. Cersei could smell weakness the way a dog smells fear.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” His sister’s lovely green eyes studied him without
the least hint of affection.
    â€œDelivering a letter from our lord father.” He sauntered to the table and
placed the tightly rolled parchment between them.
    The eunuch Varys took the letter and turned it in his delicate powdered hands.
“How kind of Lord Tywin. And his sealing wax is such a lovely shade of gold.”
Varys gave the seal a close inspection. “It gives every appearance of being
genuine.”
    â€œOf course it’s genuine.” Cersei snatched it out of his hands. She broke the
wax and unrolled the parchment.
    Tyrion watched her read. His sister had taken the king’s seat for
herself—he gathered Joffrey did not often trouble to attend council
meetings, no more than Robert had—so Tyrion climbed up into the Hand’s
chair. It seemed only appropriate.
    â€œThis is absurd,” the queen said at last. “My lord father has sent my
brother to sit in his place in this council. He bids us accept Tyrion as the
Hand of the King, until such time as he himself can join us.”
    Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his flowing white beard and nodded ponderously.
“It would seem that a welcome is in order.”
    â€œIndeed.” Jowly, balding Janos Slynt looked rather like a frog, a smug frog
who had gotten rather above himself. “We have sore need of you, my lord.
Rebellion everywhere, this grim omen in the sky, rioting in the city
streets . . .”
    â€œAnd whose fault is that, Lord Janos?” Cersei lashed out. “Your gold cloaks
are charged with keeping order. As to you, Tyrion, you could better serve us on
the field of battle.”
    He laughed. “No, I’m done with fields of battle, thank you. I sit a chair
better than a horse, and I’d sooner hold a wine goblet than a battle-axe. All
that about the thunder of the drums, sunlight flashing on armor, magnificent
destriers snorting and