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Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
Game of Thrones Prince of the Rhoyne
The High Septon threw himself sideways. His heavy body slammed into a stone pillar with a grunt. The other septons scattered in panic—some tripped on the steps, others collided and yelped in pain. Two of them scrambled behind pillars on hands and knees, robes flapping in the morning wind.
The sight was so ridiculous that the Lannister knights burst out laughing. Even Tywin's mouth curved in faint amusement.
He paid them no further attention. He rode straight past the flustered septons, hooves clattering up the final step and through the great doors of the Sept.
He had done it on purpose.
Every few days a little bird still flew back to the Red Keep with news of the Queen Regent. According to the reports, this Sept—meant to be Cersei's place of punishment and reflection—had instead become her secret meeting point with the outside world.
The High Septon had sworn the silent sisters were the most discreet women in the Seven Kingdoms, that the Great Sept was the earthly home of the gods, and that anyone who entered would be cleansed in spirit.
Apparently they couldn't even keep one woman under control.
So today Tywin had chosen to ride straight in. He wanted these fat, pious men who spent their days preaching while secretly lusting after little boys to remember one simple truth: even the Sept belonged to the Regent now.
The ancient doors they hid behind would not protect them from the lion.
If they wished to keep living in luxury, they would do exactly as he ordered.
Tywin brought his horse to a halt in the center of the vast hall. Incense hung thick in the air, mixed with the scent of beeswax and candle smoke. The stallion snorted, uneasy in the heavy perfume.
Hundreds of nobles turned to stare. Some looked shocked that he had ridden a warhorse into the Sept itself, but none dared show disapproval. They stood in strict order of rank, each in their proper place. No one stepped even an inch out of line.
Tywin looked down at them from the saddle, green eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Then he dismounted and left the reins dangling. The horse stood quietly where it was. Tywin strode toward the dais where the king and the highborn waited.
Bronn stood in the third row of the noble section.
He had always been particular about clothes—probably because he had nearly frozen to death as a boy in the slums of the Riverlands. The deep green doublet he wore today had cost double the usual price and kept the best tailor in King's Landing working through two sleepless nights. The result, in Bronn's opinion, made him look almost as impressive as Tywin Lannister himself.
His castle still wasn't finished, but Corleone had kept his word. Construction was moving faster than expected. Using the Black Hand's name like a banner, Bronn had spent the last half-month swimming comfortably among the nobles of the Crownlands. Anyone who came to him with a problem received the same vague answer: he would "handle it." The gold dragons flowed in regardless. He never had to threaten anyone.
In just two weeks he had earned more gold than twenty years of sellsword work combined.
He was even considering hanging a portrait of Corleone in the great hall once the castle was done—though the man himself would probably refuse.
Still, nothing he had seen in Corleone's office had prepared him for the sight of Tywin Lannister riding a warhorse straight into the Sept.
Bronn had met plenty of dangerous men. None of them had ever been this arrogant.
Riding a horse into the house of the gods, right in front of the king and the High Septon?
Fucking magnificent.
Watching Tywin walk toward the dais, Bronn felt something hot and ambitious swell in his chest.
He could be taken…
"Gods, the Queen is white," a lewd voice muttered beside him.
The sudden crude comment yanked Bronn out of his thoughts. He turned. Herbert stood next to him, neck stretched like a turtle, eyes fixed on the queen's section beside the altar. Bronn followed his gaze.
Margaery Tyrell wore a pale gold gown today. The neckline was modest yet low enough to make any red-blooded man's imagination run wild.
Bronn looked once. Then looked again, longer.
The boy wasn't wrong. The queen really was white—soft, creamy skin touched with the faintest rose, like fresh cream warmed by Highgarden sun and morning dew. A man could lick—
Bronn's eyes drifted to the small figure beside her.
Eight-year-old Tommen sat with his legs swinging off the edge of the oversized chair, small hands gripping the velvet armrests. He looked confused, clearly unsure what today's ceremony actually meant.
Bronn's teeth ground together.
You little shit. Do you even understand what you've got?
He turned and met Herbert's eyes. Both men grinned at the same time—the silent, filthy understanding that passed between certain kinds of men when they looked at a young queen and an old—or in this case, very young—king.
"Heh."
"Heh heh heh."
Lord Raynard Lake, standing half a pace in front of them, rolled his eyes without turning around. He didn't need to look to know what those two were snickering about.
Young noble. Beautiful queen. Old—or very young—king.
It was the oldest story in Westeros. It had played out since Aegon the Conqueror's time and would never go out of fashion.
Raynard had entertained similar thoughts himself when he was younger. Every man did, at some point. Who hadn't imagined bedding the queen in private?
Rhaella Targaryen. Cersei Lannister. Ahem.
He pushed the thought aside and glanced at the side doors of the Sept.
"Fewer guards than usual today," he muttered, just loud enough for the two behind him to hear.
Bronn, still half-lost in thoughts of creamy skin and stolen crowns, blinked and looked around. Two red-cloaked Lannister knights stood at each of the six side doors. Another eight guarded the main entrance. Twenty men total.
He frowned. That number felt wrong.
For a coronation of this importance, the Sept should have held at least fifty guards inside and out. Especially with Tywin Lannister—the man who had dragged half the Westerlands army into the city and parked two thousand soldiers on Corleone's doorstep.
Why only twenty inside the Sept itself?
Bronn shrugged. "What do we need more guards for? The whole city is already under the lion's claws. No one's stupid enough to try assassinating the Regent inside the Sept of Baelor."
Raynard considered that, then nodded. "True enough."
"Burning the place down would be easier," he added after a moment.
Bronn let out a short laugh, genuinely surprised. He hadn't expected the old lord to have a sense of humor.
"Fire's too much work," he said with the authority of a man who had once helped burn the Blackwater. "You need oil first, and the smell gives it away. By the time it catches, everyone's already running. Besides, these walls are stone. It won't collapse."
He paused, then added proudly, "During the Battle of the Blackwater I used something called wildfire. Nasty stuff. A few hundred jars buried under this place and we'd all be blown straight to the gods."
While Bronn and Lord Raynard chatted, Tywin climbed the steps to the altar. His crimson velvet robes trailed behind him like a river of blood. Every noble in the Sept watched in silence.
He reached the top and looked down at Tommen.
The eight-year-old king sat on a chair far too large for him, legs dangling, small hands clutching the velvet cushions. When he met his grandfather's gaze he instinctively shrank back, then remembered his mother's lessons and straightened his spine, trying to look regal.
Tywin said nothing. He simply dropped to one knee. The deep red robe spread across the stone like spilled blood.
The lion bowed his head.
The Sept grew so quiet that the soft crackle of candle flames could be heard. Then heavy, labored breathing approached from the side chamber.
The fat High Septon emerged, belly straining against his ornate robes embroidered with the symbols of the Seven. Every step made the fabric pull tighter, as if it might split at any moment. He moved as fast as his bulk allowed, which was still slower than a determined snail.
By the time he reached the king he was red-faced and panting. He braced one hand on the edge of the altar and the other on his lower back, sucking in great gulps of air before he could speak.
"Your Grace…" he wheezed, voice oily and obsequious. "May I…"
His eyes flicked toward the golden crown on Tommen's head. Seven gems glittered in the candlelight—too large for an eight-year-old's brow.
Tommen blinked, then reached up and carefully lifted the crown off with both hands. His soft curls sprang up where the circlet had pressed them down.
"Of course, Your Holiness," he said seriously. "Mother told me that when I'm grown, Grandfather will give it back to us."
He held the crown out without hesitation, green eyes full of innocent trust.
The High Septon's smile twitched. If your grandfather puts this on today, good luck ever getting it off again, boy.
Seven save us, is this child truly that naïve, or is he playing some deeper game?
Out loud he kept smiling. "Thank you, Your Grace."
He took the heavy crown with both hands. The sudden weight nearly made his arms drop. Gods, it really is solid gold.
He turned toward Tywin, who still knelt with his back straight as a spear.
Morning light poured through the high stained-glass windows, painting Tywin in colored beams that fell across the images of the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger.
Even on one knee, he looked like a lion ready to spring.
The High Septon drew a deep breath.
"Lord Tywin Lannister," he intoned, voice echoing beneath the great dome. "In the sight of the Seven and all men here assembled, I act in the name of His Grace King Tommen to bestow upon you the crown and authority of Regent."
"Before that may be done, you must swear the sacred oaths."
Tywin gave a single nod.
The High Septon cleared his throat. "Will you swear, in the name of the Father, to rule with justice and without favor or prejudice?"
"I swear it."
"Will you swear, in the name of the Mother, to show mercy to the weak and protect all who need your aid?"
"I swear it."
"Will you swear, in the name of the Warrior, to go forth with courage and defend the realm's lands and people with sword and shield?"
"I swear it."
"Will you swear, in the name of the Smith, to labor diligently and forge prosperity and order for the realm?"
"I swear it."
"Will you swear, in the name of the Crone, to light the way forward with wisdom?"
"I swear it."
"Will you swear, in the name of the Stranger, to face death and the unknown without losing your true self, even in darkness?"
"I swear it."
"Will you swear, in the name of the Maiden, to guard the purity of the royal bloodline against all stain and violation?"
At those words Tywin's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
"I swear it," he said through his teeth.
The High Septon nodded, satisfied. "The Seven bear witness to your vows."
He lifted the heavy golden crown with both hands and stepped forward.
Sunlight and candlelight made the circlet blaze. Tywin raised his head, eyes fixed on the crown he had waited decades to wear.
The edge of the gold touched his scalp. Cold metal met skin.
A voice rang out across the Sept, clear and cutting.
"Condoning the incest of your own children. Usurping royal authority. Desecrating the Seven. Slaughtering peaceful vassals and smallfolk alike…"
"Which of the oaths you just spoke have you ever truly kept?"