I wished to understand the nature of death, so I opened the bodies of the living. For that crime the grey sheep shamed me and forced me into exile … but I understand the nature of life and death better than any man in Oldtown.”
“Do you?” That intrigued her. “Very well. The Mountain is yours. Do what you will with him, but confine your studies to the black cells. When he dies, bring me his head. My father promised it to Dorne. Prince Doran would no doubt prefer to kill Gregor himself, but we all must suffer disappointments in this life.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Qyburn cleared his throat. “I am not so well provided as Pycelle, however. I must needs equip myself with certain …”
“I shall instruct Lord Gyles to provide you with gold sufficient for your needs. Buy yourself some new robes as well. You look as though you’ve wandered up from Flea Bottom.” She studied his eyes, wondering how far she dared trust this one. “Need I say that it will go ill for you if any word of your … labors … should pass beyond these walls?”
“No, Your Grace.” Qyburn gave her a reassuring smile. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
When he was gone, Cersei poured herself a cup of strongwine and drank it by the window, watching the shadows lengthen across the yard and thinking about the coin. Gold from the Reach. Why would an undergaoler in King’s Landing have gold from the Reach, unless he were paid to help bring about Father’s death?
Try as she might, she could not seem to bring Lord Tywin’s face to mind without seeing that silly little half smile and remembering the foul smell coming off his corpse. She wondered whether Tyrion was somehow behind that as well. It is small and cruel, like him. Could Tyrion have made Pycelle his catspaw? He sent the old man to the black cells, and this Rugen had charge of those cells, she remembered. All the strings were tangled up together in ways she did not like. This High Septon is Tyrion’s creature too, Cersei recalled suddenly, and Father’s poor body was in his care from dark till dawn.
Her uncle arrived promptly at sunset, wearing a quilted doublet of charcoal-colored wool as somber as his face. Like all the Lannisters, Ser Kevan was fair-skinned and blond, though at five-and-fifty he had lost most of his hair. No one would ever call him comely. Thick of waist, round of shoulder, with a square jutting chin that his close-cropped yellow beard did little to conceal, he reminded her of some old mastiff … but a faithful old mastiff was the very thing that she required.
They ate a simple supper of beets and bread and bloody beef with a flagon of Dornish red to wash it all down. Ser Kevan said little and scarce touched his wine cup. He broods too much, she decided. He needs to be put to work to get beyond his grief.
She said as much, when the last of the food had been cleared away and the servants had departed. “I know how much my father relied on you, Uncle. Now I must do the same.”
“You need a Hand,” he said, “and Jaime has refused you.”
He is blunt. Very well. “Jaime … I felt so lost with Father dead, I scarce knew what I was saying. Jaime is gallant, but a bit of a fool, let us be frank. Tommen needs a more seasoned man. Someone older …”
“Mace Tyrell is older.”
Her nostrils flared. “Never.” Cersei pushed a lock of hair off her brow. “The Tyrells overreach themselves.”
“You would be a fool to make Mace Tyrell your Hand,” Ser Kevan admitted, “but a bigger fool to make him your foe. I’ve heard what happened in the Hall of Lamps. Mace should have known better than to broach such matters in public, but even so, you were unwise to shame him in front of half the court.”
“Better that than suffer another Tyrell on the council.” His reproach annoyed her. “Rosby will make an adequate master of coin. You’ve seen that litter of his, with its carvings and silk draperies. His horses are better dressed than most knights. A man that rich should have no problem finding gold. As for Handship … who better to finish my father’s work than the brother who shared all his counsels?”
“Every man needs someone he can trust. Tywin had me, and once your mother.”
“He loved her very much.” Cersei refused to think about the dead whore in his bed. “I know they are together now.”
“So I pray.” Ser Kevan studied her face for a long moment before he replied. “You ask much of me, Cersei.”
“No more than my father did.”
“I am tired.” Her uncle reached for his wine cup and took a swallow. “I have a wife I have not seen in two years, a dead son to mourn, another son about to marry and assume a lordship. Castle Darry must be made strong again, its lands protected, its burned fields plowed and planted anew. Lancel needs my help.”
“As does Tommen.” Cersei had not expected Kevan to require coaxing. He never played coy with Father. “The realm needs you.”
“The realm. Aye. And House Lannister.” He sipped his wine again. “Very well. I will remain and serve His Grace …”
“Very good,” she started to say, but Ser Kevan raised his voice and bulled right over her.
“… so long as you name me regent as well as Hand and take yourself back to Casterly Rock.”
For half a heartbeat Cersei could only stare at him. “I am the regent,” she reminded him.
“You were. Tywin did not intend that you continue in that role. He told me of his plans to send you back to the Rock and find a new husband for you.”
Cersei could feel her anger rising. “He spoke of such, yes. And I told him it was not my wish to wed again.”
Her uncle was unmoved. “If you are resolved against another marriage, I will not force it on you. As to the other, though … you are the Lady of Casterly Rock now. Your place is there.”
How dare you? she wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “I am also the Queen Regent. My place is with my son.”
“Your father thought not.”
“My father is dead.”
“To my grief, and the woe of all the realm. Open your eyes and look about you, Cersei. The kingdom is in ruins. Tywin might have been able to set matters aright, but …”
“I shall set matters aright!” Cersei softened her tone. “With your help, Uncle. If you will serve me as faithfully as you served my father—”
“You are not your father. And Tywin always regarded Jaime as his rightful heir.”
“Jaime … Jaime has taken vows. Jaime never thinks, he laughs at everything and everyone and says whatever comes into his head. Jaime is a handsome fool.”
“And yet he was your first choice to be the King’s Hand. What does that make you, Cersei?”
“I told you, I was sick with grief, I did not think—”
“No,” Ser Kevan agreed. “Which is why you should return to Casterly Rock and leave the king with those who do.”
“The king is my son!” Cersei rose
