A DANCE WITH DRAGONS: Book 5 of A Song of Ice and Fire

It was a modest request. Ser Kevan saw no reason why it should not be granted. He could foster the Merryweather boy himself, whilst Lady Taena accompanied Cersei back to Casterly Rock. “I will send for her after the trial,” he promised.

Supper began with beef-and-barley soup, followed by a brace of quail and a roast pike near three feet long, with turnips, mushrooms, and plenty of hot bread and butter. Ser Boros tasted every dish that was set before the king. A humiliating duty for a knight of the Kingsguard, but perhaps all Blount was capable of these days … and wise, after the way Tommen’s brother had died.

The king seemed happier than Kevan Lannister had seen him in a long time. From soup to sweet Tommen burbled about the exploits of his kittens, whilst feeding them morsels of pike off his own royal plate. “The bad cat was outside my window last night,” he informed Kevan at one point, “but Ser Pounce hissed at him and he ran off across the roofs.”

“The bad cat?” Ser Kevan said, amused. He is a sweet boy. “An old black tomcat with a torn ear,” Cersei told him. “A filthy thing, and foul-tempered. He clawed Joff’s hand once.” She made a face. “The cats keep the rats down, I know, but that one … he’s been known to attack ravens in the rookery.”

“I will ask the ratters to set a trap for him.” Ser Kevan could not remember ever seeing his niece so quiet, so subdued, so demure. All for the good, he supposed. But it made him sad as well. Her fire is quenched, she who used to burn so bright. “You have not asked about your brother,” he said, as they were waiting for the cream cakes. Cream cakes were the king’s favorite.

Cersei lifted her chin, her green eyes shining in the candlelight. “Jaime? Have you had word?”

“None. Cersei, you may need to prepare yourself for—”

“If he were dead, I would know it. We came into this world together, Uncle. He would not go without me.” She took a drink of wine. “Tyrion can leave whenever he wishes. You have had no word of him either, I suppose.”

“No one has tried to sell us a dwarf’s head of late, no.”

She nodded. “Uncle, may I ask you a question?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Your wife … do you mean to bring her to court?”

“No.” Dorna was a gentle soul, never comfortable but at home with friends and kin around her. She had done well by their children, dreamed of having grandchildren, prayed seven times a day, loved needlework and flowers. In King’s Landing she would be as happy as one of Tommen’s kittens in a pit of vipers. “My lady wife mislikes travel. Lannisport is her place.”

“It is a wise woman who knows her place.”

He did not like the sound of that. “Say what you mean.”

“I thought I did.” Cersei held out her cup. The freckled girl filled it once again. The cream cakes appeared then, and the conversation took a lighter turn. Only after Tommen and his kittens were escorted off to the royal bedchamber by Ser Boros did their talk turn to the queen’s trial.

“Osney’s brothers will not stand by idly and watch him die,” Cersei warned him.

“I did not expect that they would. I’ve had the both of them arrested.” That seemed to take her aback. “For what crime?”

“Fornication with a queen. His High Holiness says that you confessed to bedding both of them—had you forgotten?”

Her face reddened. “No. What will you do with them?”

“The Wall, if they admit their guilt. If they deny it, they can face Ser Robert. Such men should never have been raised so high.”

Cersei lowered her head. “I … I misjudged them.”

“You misjudged a good many men, it seems.”

He might have said more, but the dark-haired novice with the round cheeks returned to say, “My lord, my lady, I am sorry to intrude, but there is a boy below. Grand Maester Pycelle begs the favor of the Lord Regent’s presence at once.”

Dark wings, dark words, Ser Kevan thought. Could Storm’s End have fallen? Or might this be word from Bolton in the north?

“It might be news of Jaime,” the queen said.

There was only one way to know. Ser Kevan rose. “Pray excuse me.” Before he took his leave, he dropped to one knee and kissed his niece upon the hand. If her silent giant failed her, it might be the last kiss she would ever know.

The messenger was a boy of eight or nine, so bundled up in fur he seemed a bear cub. Trant had kept him waiting out on the drawbridge rather than admit him into Maegor’s. “Go find a fire, lad,” Ser Kevan told him, pressing a penny into his hand. “I know the way to the rookery well enough.”