A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

ships with care, avoiding any whose captains might be of doubtful loyalty,
according to Varys . . . but as Varys himself was of doubtful
loyalty, a certain amount of apprehension remained.
I

rely too much on Varys,
he reflected.
I need my own informers. Not
that I’d trust them either.
Trust would get you killed.
    He wondered again about Littlefinger. There had been no word from Petyr Baelish
since he had ridden off for Bitterbridge. That might mean nothing—or
everything. Even Varys could not say. The eunuch had suggested that perhaps
Littlefinger had met some misfortune on the roads. He might even be slain.
Tyrion had snorted in derision. “If Littlefinger is dead, then I’m a giant.”
More likely, the Tyrells were balking at the proposed marriage. Tyrion could
scarcely blame them.
If I were Mace Tyrell, I would sooner have Joffrey’s
head on a pike than his cock in my daughter.
    The little fleet was well out into the bay when Cersei indicated that it was
time to go. Bronn brought Tyrion’s horse and helped him mount. That was Podrick
Payne’s task, but they had left Pod back at the Red Keep. The gaunt sellsword
made for a much more reassuring presence than the boy would have.
    The narrow streets were lined by men of the City Watch, holding back the crowd
with the shafts of their spears. Ser Jacelyn Bywater went in front, heading a
wedge of mounted lancers in black ringmail and golden cloaks. Behind him came
Ser Aron Santagar and Ser Balon Swann, bearing the king’s banners, the lion of
Lannister and crowned stag of Baratheon.
    King Joffrey followed on a tall grey palfrey, a golden crown set upon his
golden curls. Sansa Stark rode a chesnut mare at his side, looking neither
right nor left, her thick auburn hair flowing to her shoulders beneath a net of
moonstones. Two of the

Kingsguard flanked the couple, the Hound on the king’s right hand and Ser
Mandon Moore to the left of the Stark girl.
    Next came Tommen, snuffling, with Ser Preston Greenfield in his white armor and
cloak, and then Cersei, accompanied by Ser Lancel and protected by Meryn Trant
and Boros Blount. Tyrion fell in with his sister. After them followed the High
Septon in his litter, and a long tail of other courtiers—Ser Horas
Redwyne, Lady Tanda and her daughter, Jalabhar Xho, Lord Gyles Rosby, and the
rest. A double column of guardsmen brought up the rear.
    The unshaven and the unwashed stared at the riders with dull resentment from
behind the line of spears.
I like this not one speck,
Tyrion thought.
Bronn had a score of sellswords scattered through the crowd with orders to stop
any trouble before it started. Perhaps Cersei had similarly disposed her
Kettleblacks. Somehow Tyrion did not think it would help much. If the fire was
too hot, you could hardly keep the pudding from scorching by tossing a handful
of raisins in the pot.
    They crossed Fishmonger’s Square and rode along Muddy Way before turning onto
the narrow, curving Hook to begin their climb up Aegon’s High Hill. A few
voices raised a cry of
“Joffrey! All hail, all hail!”
as the young
king rode by, but for every man who picked up the shout, a hundred kept their
silence. The Lannisters moved through a sea of ragged men and hungry women,
breasting a tide of sullen eyes. Just ahead of him, Cersei was laughing at
something Lancel had said, though he suspected her merriment was feigned. She
could not be oblivious to the unrest around them,

but his sister always believed in putting on the brave show.
    Halfway along the route, a wailing woman forced her way between two watchmen
and ran out into the street in front of the king and his companions, holding
the corpse of her dead baby above her head. It was blue and swollen, grotesque,
but the real horror was the mother’s eyes. Joffrey looked for a moment as if he
meant to ride her down, but Sansa Stark leaned over and said something to him.
The king fumbled in his purse, and flung the woman a silver stag. The coin
bounced off the child and rolled away, under the legs of the gold cloaks and
into the crowd, where a dozen men began to fight for it. The mother never once
blinked. Her skinny arms were trembling from the dead weight of her
son.
    â€œLeave her, Your Grace,” Cersei called out to the king, “she’s beyond our
help, poor thing.”
    The mother heard her. Somehow the queen’s voice cut through