"Yes, Your Grace. I did my best to ease his passing."

Cersei studied him with displeasure. "Lord Qyburn informs me that Lord Gyles has coughed his last."

Grand Maester Pycelle had been old for as long as she had known him, but he seemed to have aged another hundred years in the past three nights. It took him an eternity to bend his creaky knee before her, and once he had he could not rise again until Ser Osmund jerked him to his feet.

"Did you?" The queen turned to Lady Merryweather. "I did say I wanted Rosby alive, did I not?"

"You did, Your Grace."

"Ser Osmund, what is your recollection of the conversation?"

Pycelle's mouth opened and closed. "Your Grace must know, I did all that could be done for the poor man."

"You commanded Grand Maester Pycelle to save the man, Your Grace. We all heard."

"As you did for Joffrey? And his father, my own beloved husband? Robert was as strong as any man in the Seven Kingdoms, yet you lost him to a boar. Oh, and let us not forget Jon Arryn. No doubt you would have killed Ned Stark as well, if I had let you keep him longer. Tell me, maester, was it at the Citadel that you learned to wring your hands and make excuses?"

"Was that good counsel?"

Her voice made the old man flinch. "No man could have done more, Your Grace. I… I have always given leal service."

"Your Grace must surely know…"

"What I know is that when my son was poisoned you proved to be of less use than Moon Boy. What I know is that the crown has desperate need of gold, and our lord treasurer is dead."

"A list." Cersei was amused by his presumption. "I can well imagine the sort of list you would provide me. Greybeards and grasping fools and Garth the Gross." Her lips tightened. "You have been much in Lady Margaery's company of late."

"That… I misjudged the…"

"When you counseled King Aerys to open his gates as my father's host approached, was that your notion of leal service?"

"Yes. Yes, I… Queen Margaery has been most distraught about Ser Loras. I provide Her Grace with sleeping draughts and… other sorts of potions."

The old fool seized upon that. "I… I shall draw up a list of men suitable to take Lord Gyles's place upon the council."

"No doubt. Tell me, was it our little queen who commanded you to kill Lord Gyles?"

"K-kill?" Grand Maester Pycelle's eyes grew as big as boiled eggs. "Your Grace cannot believe… it was his cough, by all the gods, I… Her Grace would not… she bore Lord Gyles no ill will, why would Queen Margaery want him…"

In that order? Pycelle's fear was palpable. He is ripe enough. Time to squeeze the fruit and taste the juice. "If you are as leal as you claim, why are you lying to me? Do not trouble to deny it. You began to dance attendance on Maid Margaery before Ser Loras went to Dragonstone, so spare me further fables about how you want only to console our good-daughter in her grief. What brings you to the Maidenvault so often? Not Margaery's vapid conversation, surely? Are you courting that pox-faced septa of hers? Diddling little Lady Bulwer? Do you play the spy for her, informing on me to serve her plots?"

"Your Grace, I swear to you, Lord Gyles perished from his cough." His mouth was quivering. "My loyalty has always been to the crown, to the realm… t-to House Lannister."

"… dead? Why, to plant another rose on Tommen's council. Are you blind or bought? Rosby stood in her way, so she put him in his grave. With your connivance."

"Say it!"

"I… I obey. A maester takes an oath of service…"

Pycelle collapsed to his knees. "I beg you… I was your lord father's man, and a friend to you in the matter of Lord Arryn. I could not survive the dungeons, not again…"

"Unwell?" The old man plucked at the thing he called a beard, that patched growth of thin white hair sprouting from the loose pink wattles under his chin. "N-not unwell, Your Grace, not as such. My oaths forbid me to divulge…"

"I know who she is. What I want to know is why she has need of you. Is my good-daughter unwell?"

"Your oaths will be of small comfort in the black cells," she warned him. "I'll hear the truth, or you'll wear chains."

"I meant… she is the king's wife, and…"

"A grand maester swears to serve the realm."

"Why does Margaery send for you?"

"She desires… she… she…"

"Your Grace, she… she is the queen…"

"I am the queen."

"I know what moon tea is for." There it is. "Very well. Get off those saggy knees and try to remember what it was to be a man." Pycelle struggled to rise, but took so long about it that she had to tell Osmund Kettleblack to give him another yank. "As to Lord Gyles, no doubt our Father Above will judge him justly. He left no children?"

He cringed. "Moon tea," he whispered. "Moon tea, for…"

"… not of his blood." Cersei dismissed that annoyance with a flick of her hand. "Gyles knew of our dire need for gold. No doubt he told you of his wish to leave all his lands and wealth to Tommen." Rosby's gold would help refresh their coffers, and Rosby's lands and castle could be bestowed upon one of her own as a reward for leal service. Lord Waters, perhaps. Aurane had been hinting at his need for a seat; his lordship was only an empty honor without one. He had his eye on Dragonstone, Cersei knew, but there he aimed too high. Rosby would be more suitable to his birth and station.

"Lord Gyles loved His Grace with all his heart," Pycelle was saying, "but… his ward…"

"No children of his body, but there is a ward…"

"… will doubtless understand, once he hears you speak of Lord Gyles's dying wish. Go, and see it done."

Lady Merryweather closed the door behind him. "Moon tea," she said, as she turned back to the queen. "How foolish of her. Why would she do such a thing, take such a risk?"

"If it please Your Grace." Grand Maester Pycelle almost tripped over his own robes in his haste to leave.

"The little queen has appetites that Tommen is as yet too young to satisfy." That was always a danger, when a grown woman was married to a child. Even more so with a widow. She may claim that Renly never touched her, but I will not believe it. Women only drank moon tea for one reason; maidens had no need for it at all. "My son has been betrayed. Margaery has a lover. That is high treason, punishable by death." She could only hope that Mace Tyrell's prune-faced harridan of a mother lived long enough to see the trial. By insisting that Tommen and Margaery be wed at once, Lady Olenna had condemned her precious rose to a headsman's sword. "Jaime made off with Ser Ilyn Payne. I suppose I shall need to find a new King's Justice to snick her head off."

"I'll do it," offered Osmund Kettleblack, with an easy grin. "Margaery's got a pretty little neck. A good sharp sword will go right through it."

"It would," said Taena, "but there is a Tyrell army at Storm's End and another at Maidenpool. They have sharp swords as well."

Kettleblack chewed on one end of his mustache. "We need to catch them during the deed."

"How? Qyburn has eyes on her day and night. Her serving men take my coin, but bring us only trifles. Yet no one has seen this lover. The ears outside her door hear singing, laughter, gossip, nothing of any use."

I am awash in roses. It was vexing. She still had need of Mace Tyrell, if not his daughter. At least until such time as Stannis is defeated. Then I shan't need any of them. But how could she rid herself of the daughter without losing the father? "Treason is treason," she said, "but we must have proof, something more substantial than moon tea. If she is proved to be untrue, even her own lord father must condemn her, or her shame becomes his own."

"Margaery is too shrewd to be caught so easily," said Lady Merryweather. "Her women are her castle walls. They sleep with her, dress her, pray with her, read with her, sew with her. When she is not hawking or riding she is playing come-into-my-castle with little Alysanne Bulwer. Whenever men are about, her septa will be with her, or her cousins."

"The cousins?" Even Taena sounded doubtful. "All three are younger than the little queen, and more innocent."

"Go and tell your lord husband and make arrangements for the singer," Cersei urged. "Ser Osmund, you may remain. We have much and more to discuss. I shall have need of Qyburn too."

Taena was very quick. "Music. Just so."

"She must rid herself of her hens sometime," the queen insisted. A thought struck her. "Unless her ladies are part of it as well… not all of them, perhaps, but some."

"Wantons clad in maiden's white. That only makes their sins more shocking. Their names will live in shame." Suddenly the queen could almost taste it. "Taena, your lord husband is my justiciar. The two of you must sup with me, this very night." She wanted this done quickly, before Margaery took it in her little head to return to Highgarden, or sail to Dragonstone to be with her wounded brother at death's door. "I shall command the cooks to roast a boar for us. And of course we must have some music, to help with our digestion."

"We shall have need of a new lord treasurer. If the Vale were not so unsettled, I would bring back Petyr Baelish, but… I am minded to try Ser Harys in the office. He can do no worse than Gyles, and at least he does not cough."

"No. No, I'd think not."

Sad to say, the kitchens proved to have no wild boar on hand, and there was not time enough to send out hunters. Instead, the cooks butchered one of the castle sows, and served them ham studded with cloves and basted with honey and dried cherries. It was not what Cersei wanted, but she made do.

Afterward they had baked apples with a sharp white cheese. Lady Taena savored every bite. Not so Orton Merryweather, whose round face remained blotched and pale from broth to cheese. He drank heavily and kept stealing glances at the singer.

Ser Harys is a hostage, and feeble even at that. "It is time that Tommen had a more forceful Hand."

"A great pity about Lord Gyles," Cersei said at last. "I daresay none of us will miss his coughing, though."

"Ser Harys is the King's Hand," said Taena.

"You, my lord. It is in your blood. Your grandsire took my own father's place as Hand to Aerys." Replacing Tywin Lannister with Owen Merryweather had proved to be akin to replacing a destrier with a donkey, to be sure, but Owen had been an old done man when Aerys raised him, amiable if ineffectual. His grandson was younger, and… Well, he has a strong wife. It was a pity Taena could not serve as Hand. She was thrice the man her husband was, and far more amusing. She was also Myrish-born and female, however, so Orton must needs suffice. "I have no doubt that you are more able than Ser Harys." The contents of my chamber pot are more able than Ser Harys. "Will you consent to serve?"

Lord Orton lifted his gaze from his wine cup. "Forceful. To be sure." He hesitated. "Who…?"

"I… yes, of course. Your Grace does me great honor."

A greater one than you deserve. "You have served me ably as justiciar, my lord. And will continue to do so through these… trying times ahead."

When she saw that Merryweather had grasped her meaning, the queen turned to smile at the singer. "And you must be rewarded as well, for all the sweet songs you have played for us whilst we ate. The gods have given you a gift."

"Not kind," said Cersei, "merely truthful. Taena tells me that you are called the Blue Bard."

The singer bowed. "Your Grace is kind to say so."

"I am, Your Grace." The singer's boots were supple blue calfskin, his breeches fine blue wool. The tunic he wore was pale blue silk slashed with shiny blue satin. He had even gone so far as to dye his hair blue, in the Tyroshi fashion. Long and curly, it fell to his shoulders and smelled as if it had been washed in rosewater. From blue roses, no doubt. At least his teeth are white. They were good teeth, not the least bit crooked.

"Oh, I'm certain of it. Might I see your lute?"

"You have no other name?"

A hint of pink suffused his cheeks. "As a boy, I was called Wat. A fine name for a plowboy, less fitting for a singer."

"Her Grace is kind. She says I give her pleasure."

The Blue Bard's eyes were the same color as Robert's. For that alone, she hated him. "It is easy to see why you are Lady Margaery's favorite."

"If it please Your Grace." Beneath the courtesy, there was a faint hint of unease, but he handed her the lute all the same. One does not refuse the queen's request.

Cersei plucked a string and smiled at the sound. "Sweet and sad as love. Tell me, Wat… the first time you took Margaery to bed, was that before she wed my son, or after?"

Orton Merryweather's face was damp with fear. "This… oh, infamy… he dared seduce the queen?"

For a moment he did not seem to understand. When he did, his eyes grew large. "Your Grace has been misinformed. I swear to you, I never --"

"Liar!" Cersei smashed the lute across the singer's face so hard the painted wood exploded into shards and splinters. "Lord Orton, summon my guards and take this creature to the dungeons."

The Blue Bard went white. "No." Blood dripped from his lip where the lute had torn it. "I never…" When Merryweather seized him by the arm, he screamed, "Mother have mercy, no."

"I fear it was the other way around, but he is a traitor all the same. Let him sing for Lord Qyburn."

"I am not your mother," Cersei told him.

Even in the black cells, all they got from him were denials, prayers, and pleas for mercy. Before long, blood was streaming down his chin from all his broken teeth, and he wet his dark blue breeches three times over, yet still the man persisted in his lies.

"All things are possible, Your Grace. Have no fear. The man will confess before the night is done." Down here in the dungeons, Qyburn wore roughspun wool and a blacksmith's leather apron. To the Blue Bard he said, "I am sorry if the guards were rough with you. Their courtesies are sadly lacking." His voice was kind, solicitous. "All we want from you is the truth."

"I've told you the truth," the singer sobbed. Iron shackles held him hard against the cold stone wall.

"We know better." Qyburn had a razor in his hand, its edge gleaming faintly in the torchlight. He cut away the Blue Bard's clothing, until the man was naked but for his high blue boots. The hair between his legs was brown, Cersei was amused to see. "Tell us how you pleasured the little queen," she commanded.

"None of them. I'm just a singer. Please."

"How many of them did you have carnal knowledge of?"

"Is it possible we have the wrong singer?" Cersei asked.

"I never… I sang, was all, I sang and played. Her ladies will tell you. They were always with us. Her cousins."

"No. Please. She never… I sang, I only sang…"

Lord Qyburn ran a hand up the Blue Bard's chest. "Does she take your nipples in her mouth during your love play?" He took one between his thumb and forefinger, and twisted. "Some men enjoy that. Their nipples are as sensitive as a woman's." The razor flashed, the singer shrieked. On his chest a wet red eye wept blood. Cersei felt ill. Part of her wanted to close her eyes, to turn away, to make it stop. But she was the queen and this was treason. Lord Tywin would not have turned away.

Qyburn said, "Your Grace, mayhaps this poor man only played for Margaery whilst she entertained other lovers."

In the end the Blue Bard told them his whole life, back to his first name day. His father had been a chandler and Wat was raised to that trade, but as a boy he found he had more skill at making lutes than barrels. When he was twelve he ran off to join a troupe of musicians he had heard performing at a fair. He had wandered half the Reach before coming to King's Landing in hopes of finding favor at court.

Yes. Cersei blamed Margaery Tyrell for this. If not for her, Wat might have lived a long and fruitful life, singing his little songs and bedding pig girls and crofter's daughters. Her scheming forced this on me. She has soiled me with her treachery.

"Favor?" Qyburn chuckled. "Is that what women call it now? I fear you found too much of it, my friend… and from the wrong queen. The true one stands before you."

By dawn the singer's high blue boots were full of blood, and he had told them how Margaery would fondle herself as she watched her cousins pleasuring him with their mouths. At other times he would sing for her whilst she sated her lusts with other lovers. "Who were they?" the queen demanded, and the wretched Wat named Ser Tallad the Tall, Lambert Turnberry, Jalabhar Xho, the Redwyne twins, Osney Kettleblack, Hugh Clifton, and the Knight of Flowers.

That displeased her. She dare not besmirch the name of the hero of Dragonstone. Besides, no one who knew Ser Loras would ever believe it. The Redwynes could not be a part of it either. Without the Arbor and its fleet, the realm could never hope to rid itself of this Euron Crow's Eye and his accursed ironmen. "All you are doing is spitting up the names of men you saw about her chambers. We want the truth!"

"No," he admitted. "Not them."

"Horas and Hobber had no part of this, did they?"

"The truth." Wat looked at her with the one blue eye that Qyburn had left him. Blood bubbled through the holes where his front teeth had been. "I might have… misremembered."

"I won't. I'll tell it true. And after…"

"As for Ser Loras, I am certain Margaery took pains to hide what she was doing from her brother."

"She did. I remember now. Once I had to hide under the bed when Ser Loras came to see her. He must never know, she said."

"I prefer this song to the other." Leave the great lords out of it, that was for the best. The others, though… Ser Tallad had been a hedge knight, Jalabhar Xho was an exile and a beggar, Clifton was the only one of the little queen's guardsman. And Osney is the plum that makes the pudding. "I know you feel better for having told the truth. You will want to remember that when Margaery comes to trial. If you were to start lying again…"

"… you will be allowed to take the black. You have my word on that." Cersei turned to Qyburn. "See that his wounds are cleaned and dressed, and give him milk of the poppy for the pain."

"Singers come and go, they are infamous for it."

"Your Grace is good." Qyburn dropped the bloody razor into a pail of vinegar. "Margaery may wonder where her bard has gone."

Lady Merryweather was waiting in her bedchamber. It was the black of night, closer to dawn than to dusk. Jocelyn and Dorcas were both asleep, but not Taena. "Was it terrible?" she asked.

The climb up the dark stone steps from the black cells left Cersei feeling breathless. I must rest. Getting to the truth was wearisome work, and she dreaded what must follow. I must be strong. What I must do I do for Tommen and the realm. It was a pity that Maggy the Frog was dead. Piss on your prophecy, old woman. The little queen may be younger than I, but she has never been more beautiful, and soon she will be dead.

"You cannot know. I need to sleep, but fear to dream."

"It was. I know it was." Cersei shuddered. "My throat is raw. Be a sweet and pour me some wine."

Taena stroked her hair. "It was all for Tommen."

"If it please you. That is all that I desire."

The two of them shared the bath together, with Cersei lying back in Taena's arms. "Tommen must be spared the worst of this," she told the Myrish woman. "Margaery still takes him to the sept every day, so they can ask the gods to heal her brother." Ser Loras still clung to life, annoyingly. "He is fond of her cousins as well. It will go hard on him, to lose them all."

The wine helped, but not enough. "I feel soiled," the queen complained as she stood beside her window, cup in hand.

"A bath will set you right, my sweet." Lady Merryweather woke Dorcas and Jocelyn and sent them for hot water. As the tub was filled, she helped the queen disrobe, undoing her laces with deft fingers and easing the gown off her shoulders. Then she slipped out of her own dress and let it puddle on the floor.

Liar. She knew what Taena desired. So be it. If the woman was besotted with her, that would help ensure that she and her husband remained loyal. In a world so full of treachery, that was worth a few kisses. She is no worse than most men. At least there is no danger of her ever getting me with child.

"… she might be persuaded to bear witness against the others. Yes, very good, but which one is the innocent?"

"Alla."

"Gladly." Alone, the Blue Bard's confession would never suffice. Singers lied for their living, after all. Alla Tyrell would be of great help, if Taena could deliver her. "Ser Osney shall confess as well. The others must be made to understand that only through confession can they earn the king's forgiveness, and the Wall." Jalabhar Xho would find the truth attractive. About the rest she was less certain, but Qyburn was persuasive…

Dawn was breaking over King's Landing when they climbed from the tub. The queen's skin was white and wrinkled from her long immersion. "Stay with me," she told Taena. "I do not want to sleep alone." She even said a prayer before she crawled beneath her coverlet, beseeching the Mother for sweet dreams.

"So she seems, but there is more of sly than shy in her. Leave her to me, my sweet."

"All three may not be guilty," suggested Lady Merryweather. "Why, it might well be that one of them took no part. If she was shamed and sickened by the things she saw…"

"The shy one?"

Tyrion only leered at her. He was naked too, covered with coarse hair that made him look more like a monkey than a man. "You shall see them crowned," he said, "and you shall see them die." Then he took her bleeding breast into his mouth and began to suck, and pain sawed through her like a hot knife.

She woke shuddering in Taena's arms. "A bad dream," she said weakly. "Did I scream? I'm sorry."

It proved a waste of breath; as ever, the gods were deaf. Cersei dreamt that she was down in the black cells once again, only this time it was her chained to the wall in place of the singer. She was naked, and blood dripped from the tips of her breasts where the Imp had torn off her nipples with his teeth. "Please," she begged, "please, not my children, do not harm my children."

"Dreams turn to dust in light of day. Was it the dwarf again? Why does he frighten you so, this silly little man?"

"He is going to kill me. It was foreseen when I was ten. I wanted to know who I would marry, but she said…"

"The maegi." The words came tumbling out of her. She could still hear Melara Hetherspoon insisting that if they never spoke about the prophecies, they would not come true. She was not so silent in the well, though. She screamed and shouted. "Tyrion is the valonqar," she said. "Do you use that word in Myr? It's High Valyrian, it means little brother." She had asked Septa Saranella about the word, after Melara drowned.

"She?"

Tommen helped restore her to herself. He had never been more precious to her than he was that morning, chattering about his kittens as he dribbled honey onto a chunk of hot black bread fresh from the ovens. "Ser Pounce caught a mouse," he told her, "but Lady Whiskers stole it from him."

Could it be? Cersei wanted to believe it. "Melara died, though, just as she foretold. I never wed Prince Rhaegar. And Joffrey… the dwarf killed my son before my eyes."

Taena took her hand and stroked it. "This was a hateful woman, old and sick and ugly. You were young and beautiful, full of life and pride. She lived in Lannisport, you said, so she would have known of the dwarf and how he killed your lady mother. This creature dared not strike you, because of who you were, so she sought to wound you with her viper's tongue."

"One son," said Lady Merryweather, "but you have another, sweet and strong, and no harm will ever come to him."

"Never, whilst I live." Saying it helped her believe that it was so. Dreams turn to dust in light of day, yes. Outside the morning sun was shining through a haze of cloud. Cersei slipped out from under the blankets. "I will break my fast with the king this morning. I want to see my son." All I do, I do for him.

The king considered that, licking honey off his fingers. "When Ser Loras comes back I'm going to learn to fight with lance and sword and morningstar, the same way he does."

I was never so sweet and innocent, Cersei thought. How can he ever hope to rule in this cruel realm? The mother in her wanted only to protect him; the queen in her knew he must grow harder, or the Iron Throne was certain to devour him. "Ser Pounce must learn to defend his rights," she told him. "In this world the weak are always the victims of the strong."

"You will learn to fight," the queen promised, "but not from Ser Loras. He will not be coming back, Tommen."

"Not today. She has to fast and purify herself, she said."

She smoothed his hair back, the soft golden curls that reminded her so much of Joff. "Will you be spending the afternoon with your wife and her cousins?"

"Margaery says he will. We pray for him. We ask for the Mother's mercy, and for the Warrior to give him strength. Elinor says that this is Ser Loras's hardest battle."

Cersei kissed her son's brow. "You said something very wise, sweetling. Now run along and play with your kittens."

"Mother? Did I say something wrong?"

Fast and purify… oh, for Maiden's Day. It had been years since Cersei had been required to observe that particular holy day. Thrice wed, yet she still would have us believe she is a maid. Demure in white, the little queen would lead her hens to Baelor's Sept to light tall white candles at the Maiden's feet and hang parchment garlands about her holy neck. A few of her hens, at least. On Maiden's Day widows, mothers, and whores alike were barred from the septs, along with men, lest they profane the sacred songs of innocence. Only virgin maids could…

"Rise, ser, and sit here next to me. You did me a valiant service once, but now I have a harder task for you."

"Aye, and I have something hard for you."

Afterward she summoned Ser Osney Kettleblack to her solar. He came in sweaty from the yard and swaggering, and as he took a knee he undressed her with his eyes, the way he always did.

"That must wait." She traced his scars lightly with the tips of her fingers. "Do you recall the whore who gave these to you? I'll give her to you when you come back from the Wall. Would you like that?"

"It's you I want."

That was the right answer. "First you must confess your treason. A man's sins can poison his soul if left to fester. I know it must be hard for you to live with what you've done. It is past time that you rid yourself of your shame."

"Shame?" Osney sounded baffled. "I told Osmund, Margaery just teases. She never lets me do any more than…"

Osney blinked. "What, the cousins too?"

"It is chivalrous of you to protect her," Cersei broke in, "but you are too good a knight to go on living with your crime. No, you must take yourself to the Great Sept of Baelor this very night and speak with the High Septon. When a man's sins are so black, only His High Holiness himself can save him from hell's torments. Tell him how you bedded Margaery and her cousins."

"Megga and Elinor," she decided, "never Alla." That little detail would make the whole story more plausible. "Alla would sit weeping, and plead with the others to stop their sinning."

"You may take all the kisses you like."

She told him all she had in mind. As Osney listened, apprehension slowly spread across his face. When she finished he said, "After you cut her head off, I want to take that kiss she never gave me."

"Just Megga and Elinor? Or Margaery too?"

"Margaery, most certainly. She was the one behind it all."

"And then the Wall?"

The queen was taken aback. The last thing she expected was piety from a Kettleblack. "Are you refusing to obey me?"

"For just a little while. Tommen is a forgiving king."

"No." Osney touched her golden hair. "The thing is, the best lies have some truth in 'em… to give 'em flavor, as it were. And you want me to go tell how I fucked a queen…"

Osney scratched at his scarred cheek. "Usually if I lie about some woman, it's me saying how I never fucked them and them saying how I did. This… I never lied to no High Septon before. I think you go to some hell for that. One o' the bad ones."

She almost slapped his face. Almost. But she had gone too far, and too much was at stake. All I do, I do for Tommen. She turned her head and caught Ser Osney's hand with her own, kissing his fingers. They were rough and hard, callused from the sword. Robert had hands like that, she thought.

Cersei wrapped her arms about his neck. "I would not want it said I made a liar of you," she whispered in a husky voice. "Give me an hour, and meet me in my bedchamber."

"We waited long enough." He thrust his fingers inside the bodice of her gown and yanked, and the silk parted with a ripping sound so loud that Cersei was afraid that half of the Red Keep must have heard it. "Take off the rest before I tear that too," he said. "You can keep the crown on. I like you in the crown."