A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

on his bare skin. Ser
Lancel was sixteen, and not known for his patience. Let him wait, and grow more
anxious in the waiting. When his bowels were empty, Tyrion slipped on a bedrobe
and roughed his thin flaxen hair with his fingers, all the more to look as if
he had wakened from sleep.
    Lancel was pacing before the ashes of the hearth, garbed in slashed red velvet
with black silk undersleeves, a jeweled dagger

and a gilded scabbard hanging from his swordbelt. “Cousin,” Tyrion greeted
him. “Your visits are too few. To what do I owe this undeserved
pleasure?”
    â€œHer Grace the Queen Regent has sent me to command you to release Grand
Maester Pycelle.” Ser Lancel showed Tyrion a crimson ribbon, bearing Cersei’s
lion seal impressed in golden wax. “Here is her warrant.”
    â€œSo it is.” Tyrion waved it away. “I hope my sister is not overtaxing
her strength, so soon after her illness. It would be a great pity if she were
to suffer a relapse.”
    â€œHer Grace is quite recovered,” Ser Lancel said curtly.
    â€œMusic to my ears.”
Though not a tune I’m fond of. I should have given
her a larger dose.
Tyrion had hoped for a few more days without Cersei’s
interference, but he was not too terribly surprised by her return to health.
She was Jaime’s twin, after all. He made himself smile pleasantly. “Pod, build
us a fire,

the air is too chilly for my taste. Will you take a cup with me, Lancel? I find
that mulled wine helps me sleep.”
    â€œI need no help sleeping,” Ser Lancel said. “I am come at Her Grace’s
behest, not to drink with you, Imp.”
    Knighthood had made the boy bolder, Tyrion reflected—that, and the sorry
part he had played in murdering King Robert. “Wine does have its dangers.” He
smiled as he poured. “As to Grand Maester Pycelle . . . if my
sweet sister is so concerned for him, I would have thought she’d come herself.
Instead she sends you. What am I to make of that?”
    â€œMake of it what you will, so long as you release your prisoner. The Grand
Maester is a staunch friend to the Queen Regent, and under her personal
protection.” A hint of a sneer played about the lad’s lips; he was enjoying
this.
He takes his lessons from Cersei.
“Her Grace will never
consent to this outrage. She reminds you that
she
is Joffrey’s
regent.”
    â€œAs I am Joffrey’s Hand.”
    â€œThe Hand serves,” the young knight informed him airily.

“The regent
rules
until the king is of age.”
    â€œPerhaps you ought write that down so I’ll remember it better.” The fire was
crackling merrily. “You may leave us, Pod,” Tyrion told his squire. Only when
the boy was gone did he turn back to Lancel. “There is more?”
    â€œYes. Her Grace bids me inform you that Ser Jacelyn Bywater defied a command
issued in the king’s own name.”
    Which means that Cersei has already ordered
Bywater to release Pycelle,
and been rebuffed.
“I see.”
    â€œShe insists that the man be removed from his office and placed under arrest
for treason. I warn you—”
    He set aside his wine cup. “I’ll hear no warnings from you, boy.”
    â€œSer,”
Lancel said stiffly. He touched his sword, perhaps to remind
Tyrion that he wore one. “Have a care how you speak to me, Imp.” Doubtless he
meant to sound threatening, but that absurd wisp of a mustache ruined the
effect.
    â€œOh, unhand your sword. One cry from me and Shagga will burst in and kill you.
With an axe, not a wineskin.”
    Lancel reddened; was he such a fool as to believe his part in Robert’s death
had gone unnoted? “I am a knight—”
    â€œSo I’ve noted. Tell me—did Cersei have you knighted before or after
she took you into her bed?”
    The flicker in Lancel’s green eyes was all the admission Tyrion needed. So
Varys told it true.
Well, no one can ever claim that my sister does not
love her family.
“What, nothing to

say? No more warnings for me,
ser
?”
    â€œYou will withdraw these filthy accusations or—”
    â€œPlease. Have you given any thought to what Joffrey will do when I tell him
you murdered his father to bed his mother?”
    â€œIt was not like that!” Lancel protested, horrified.
    â€œNo? What
was
it like,