04 A Feast for Crows by Martin George RR

Author:Martin, George RR [RR, Martin, George]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-04-10T21:04:34.538000+00:00

CERSEI It was a slow climb to the top of Visenyas Hill. As the horses labored upward, the queen leaned back against a plump red cushion. From outside came the voice of Ser Osmund Kettleblack. Make way. Clear the street. Make way for Her Grace the queen. Margaery does keep a lively court, Lady Merryweather was saying. We have jugglers, mummers, poets, puppets . . . Singers? prompted Cersei. Many and more, Your Grace. Hamish the Harper plays for her once a fortnight, and sometimes Alaric of Eysen will entertain us of an evening, but the Blue Bard is her favorite. Cersei recalled the bard from Tommens wedding. Young, and fair to look upon. Could there be something there? There are other men as well, I hear. Knights and courtiers. Admirers. Tell me true, my lady. Do you think Margaery is still a maiden? She says she is, Your Grace. So she does. What do you say? Taenas black eyes sparkled with mischief. When she wed Lord Renly at Highgarden, I helped disrobe him for the bedding. His lordship was a well-made man, and lusty. I saw the proof when we tumbled him into the wedding bed where his bride awaited him as naked as her name day, blushing prettily beneath the coverlets. Ser Loras had carried her up the steps himself. Margaery may say that the marriage was never consummated, that Lord Renly had drunk too much wine at the wedding feast, but I promise you, the bit between his legs was anything but weary when last I saw it. Did you chance to see the marriage bed the morning after? Cersei asked. Did she bleed? No sheet was shown, Your Grace. A pity. Still, the absence of a bloody sheet meant little, by itself. Common peasant girls bled like pigs upon their wedding nights, she had heard, but that was less true of highborn maids like Margaery Tyrell. A lords daughter was more like to give her maidenhead to a horse than a husband, it was said, and Margaery had been riding since she was old enough to walk. I understand the little queen has many admirers amongst our household knights. The Redwyne twins, Ser Tallad . . . who else, pray tell? Lady Merryweather gave a shrug. Ser Lambert, the fool who hides a good eye behind a patch. Bayard Norcross. Courtenay Greenhill. The brothers Woodwright, sometimes Portifer and often Lucantine. Oh, and Grand Maester Pycelle is a frequent visitor. Pycelle? Truly? Had that doddering old worm forsaken the lion for the rose? If so, he will regret it. Who else? The Summer Islander in his feathered cloak. How could I have forgotten him, with his skin as black as ink? Others come to pay court to her cousins. Elinor is promised to the Ambrose boy, but loves to flirt, and Megga has a new suitor every fortnight. Once she kissed a potboy in the kitchen. I have heard talk of her marrying Lady Bulwers brother, but if Megga were to choose for herself, she would sooner have Mark Mullendore, I am certain.

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