A Feast for Crows (A Song of Ice and Fire 4)

An awkward silence followed. Have they all swallowed their tongues? Cersei thought, with irritation. It was enough to make her wonder why she bothered with a council.

"In any case," the queen went on, "Lord Eddard's younger daughter is with Lord Bolton, and will be wed to his son Ramsay as soon as Moat Cailin has fallen." So long as the girl played her role well enough to cement their claim to Winterfell, neither of the Boltons would much care that she was actually some steward's whelp tricked up by Littlefinger. "If the north must have a Stark, we'll give them one." She let Lord Merryweather fill her cup once again. "Another problem has arisen on the Wall, however. The brothers of the Night's Watch have taken leave of their wits and chosen Ned Stark's bastard son to be their Lord Commander."

"Snow, the boy is called," Pycelle said unhelpfully.

"I glimpsed him once at Winterfell," the queen said, "though the Starks did their best to hide him. He looks very like his father." Her husband's by-blows had his look as well, though at least Robert had the grace to keep them out of sight. Once, after that sorry business with the cat, he had made some noises about bringing some baseborn daughter of his to court. "Do as you please," she'd told him, "but you may find that the city is not a healthy place for a growing girl." The bruise those words had won her had been hard to hide from Jaime, but they heard no more about the bastard girl. Catelyn Tully was a mouse, or she would have smothered this Jon Snow in his cradle. Instead, she's left the filthy task to me. "Snow shares Lord Eddard's taste for treason too," she said. "The father would have handed the realm to Stannis. The son has given him lands and castles."

"The Night's Watch is sworn to take no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms," Pycelle reminded them. "For thousands of years the black brothers have upheld that tradition."

"Until now," said Cersei. "The bastard boy has written us to avow that the Night's Watch takes no side, but his actions give the lie to his words. He has given Stannis food and shelter, yet has the insolence to plead with us for arms and men."

"An outrage," declared Lord Merryweather. "We cannot allow the Night's Watch to join its strength to that of Lord Stannis."

"We must declare this Snow a traitor and a rebel," agreed Ser Harys Swyft. "The black brothers must remove him."

Grand Maester Pycelle nodded ponderously. "I propose that we inform Castle Black that no more men will be sent to them until such time as Snow is gone."

"Our new dromonds will need oarsmen," said Aurane Waters. "Let us instruct the lords to send their poachers and thieves to me henceforth, instead of to the Wall."

Qyburn leaned forward with a smile. "The Night's Watch defends us all from snarks and grumkins. My lords, I say that we must help the brave black brothers."

Cersei gave him a sharp look. "What are you saying?"

"This," Qyburn said. "For years now, the Night's Watch has begged for men. Lord Stannis has answered their plea. Can King Tommen do less? His Grace should send the Wall a hundred men. To take the black, ostensibly, but in truth . . ."

". . . to remove Jon Snow from the command," Cersei finished, delighted. I knew I was right to want him on my council. "That is just what we shall do." She laughed. If this bastard boy is truly his father's son, he will not suspect a thing. Perhaps he will even thank me, before the blade slides between his ribs. "It will need to be done carefully, to be sure. Leave the rest to me, my lords." This was how an enemy should be dealt with: with a dagger, not a declaration. "We have done good work today, my lords. I thank you. Is there aught else?"

"One last thing, Your Grace," said Aurane Waters, in an apologetic tone. "I hesitate to take up the council's time with trifles, but there has been some queer talk heard along the docks of late. Sailors from the east. They speak of dragons . . ."

". . . and manticores, no doubt, and bearded snarks?" Cersei chuckled. "Come back to me when you hear talk of dwarfs, my lord." She stood, to signal that the meeting was at an end.

A blustery autumn wind was blowing when Cersei left the council chambers, and bells of Blessed Baelor still sang their song of mourning off across the city. In the yard twoscore knights were hammering each other with sword and shield, adding to the din. Ser Boros Blount escorted the queen back to her apartments, where she found Lady Merryweather chuckling with Jocelyn and Dorcas. "What is it you all find so amusing?"

"The Redwyne twins," said Taena. "Both of them have fallen in love with Lady Margaery. They used to fight over which would be the next Lord of the Arbor. Now both of them want to join the Kingsguard, just to be near the little queen."

"The Redwynes have always had more freckles than wits." It was a useful thing to know, though. If Horror or Slobber were to be found abed with Margaery . . . Cersei wondered if the little queen liked freckles. "Dorcas, fetch me Ser Osney Kettleblack."

Dorcas blushed. "As you command."

When the girl was gone, Taena Merryweather gave the queen a quizzical look. "Why did she turn so red?"

"Love." It was Cersei's turn to laugh. "She fancies our Ser Osney." He was the youngest Kettleblack, the clean-shaved one. Though he had the same black hair, hooked nose, and easy smile as his brother Osmund, one cheek bore three long scratches, courtesy of one of Tyrion's whores. "She likes his scars, I think."

Lady Merryweather's dark eyes shone with mischief. "Just so. Scars make a man look dangerous, and danger is exciting."

"You shock me, my lady," the queen said, teasing. "If danger excites you so, why wed Lord Orton? We all love him, it is true, but still . . ." Petyr had once remarked that the horn of plenty that adorned House Merryweather's arms suited Lord Orton admirably, since he had carrot-colored hair, a nose as bulbous as a beetroot, and pease porridge for wits.

Taena laughed. "My lord is more bountiful than dangerous, this is so. Yet . . . I hope Your Grace will not think the less of me, but I did not come a maid entire to Orton's bed."

You are all whores in the Free Cities, aren't you? That was good to know; one day, she might be able to make use of it. "And pray, who was this lover who was so . . . full of danger?"

Taena's olive skin turned even darker as she blushed. "Oh, I should not have spoken. Your Grace will keep my secret, yes?"

"Men have scars, women mysteries." Cersei kissed her cheek. I will have his name out of you soon enough.

When Dorcas returned with Ser Osney Kettleblack, the queen dismissed her ladies. "Come sit with me by the window, Ser Osney. Will you take a cup of wine?" She poured for them herself. "Your cloak is threadbare. I have a mind to put you in a new one."

"What, a white one? Who's died?"

"No one, as yet," the queen said. "Is that your wish, to join your brother Osmund in our Kingsguard?"

"I'd rather be the queen's guard, if it please Your Grace." When Osney grinned, the scars on his cheek turned bright red.

Cersei's fingers traced their path across his cheek. "You have a bold tongue, ser. You will make me forget myself again."

"Good." Ser Osney caught her hand and kissed her fingers roughly. "My sweet queen."

"You are a wicked man," the queen whispered, "and no true knight, I think." She let him touch her br**sts through the silk of her gown. "Enough."

"It isn't. I want you."

"You've had me."

"Only once." He grabbed her left breast again and gave it a clumsy squeeze that reminded her of Robert.

"One good night for one good knight. You did me valiant service, and you had your reward." Cersei walked her fingers up his laces. She could feel him stiffening through his breeches. "Was that a new horse you were riding in the yard yestermorn?"

"The black stallion? Aye. A gift from my brother Osfryd. Midnight, I call him."

How wonderfully original. "A fine mount for a battle. For pleasure, though, there is nothing to compare to a gallop on a spirited young filly." She gave him a smile and a squeeze. "Tell me true. Do you think our little queen is pretty?"

Ser Osney drew back, wary. "I suppose. For a girl. I'd sooner have a woman."

"Why not both?" she whispered. "Pluck the little rose for me, and you will not find me to be ungrateful."

"The little . . . Margaery, you mean?" Ser Osney's ardor was wilting in his breeches. "She's the king's wife. Wasn't there some Kingsguard who lost his head for bedding the king's wife?"

"Ages ago." She was his king's mistress, not his wife, and his head was the only thing he did not lose. Aegon dismembered him piece by piece, and made the woman watch. Cersei did not want Osney dwelling on that ancient unpleasantness, however. "Tommen is not Aegon the Unworthy. Have no fear, he will do as I bid him. I mean for Margaery to lose her head, not you."

That gave him pause. "Her maidenhead, you mean?"

"That too. Assuming she has still one." She traced his scars again. "Unless you think Margaery would prove unresponsive to your . . . charms?"

Osney gave her a wounded look. "She likes me well enough. Them cousins of hers are always teasing with me about my nose. How big it is, and all. The last time Megga did that, Margaery told them to stop and said I had a lovely face."

"There you are, then."

"There I am," the man agreed, in a doubtful tone, "but where am I going to be if she . . . if I . . . after we . . . ?"

". . . do the deed?" Cersei gave him a barbed smile. "Lying with a queen is treason. Tommen would have no choice but to send you to the Wall."

"The Wall?" he said with dismay.

It was all she could do not to laugh. No, best not. Men hate being laughed at. "A black cloak would go well with your eyes, and that black hair of yours."

"No one returns from the Wall."

"You will. All you need to do is kill a boy."

"What boy?"

"A bastard boy in league with Stannis. He's young and green, and you'll have a hundred men."

Kettleblack was afraid, she could smell it on him, but he was too proud to own up to that fear. Men are all alike. "I've killed more boys than I can count," he insisted. "Once this boy is dead, I'd get my pardon from the king?"

"That, and a lordship." Unless Snow's brothers hang you first. "A queen must have a consort. One who knows no fear."

"Lord Kettleblack?" A slow smile spread across his face, and his scars flamed red. "Aye, I like the sound o' that. A lordly lord . . ."

". . . and fit to bed a queen."

He frowned. "The Wall is cold."

"And I am warm." Cersei put her arms about his neck. "Bed a girl and kill a boy and I am yours. Do you have the courage?"

Osney thought a moment before he nodded. "I am your man."

"You are, ser." She kissed him, and let him have a little taste of tongue before she broke away. "Enough for now. The rest must wait. Will you dream of me tonight?"