“A fortnight? Sounds ambitious,” said Tycho Nestoris, stroking his beard.
The Iron Bank were low on patience, Cersei knew. She also knew what happened when they ran out of it. “On the contrary,” she said, keeping her cool, sipping wine. “My Small Council has gotten smaller since the, ah, tragedy at Baelor. Pycelle gone, Mace Tyrell dead, Queen Margarey burned… only Qyburn remains to aid me. This could have been arranged sooner.”
Nestoris smiled in that snakelike way he did. “I understand. You will have your fortnight, but no longer, I’m afraid.” His smile grew wilier. Yes, I know what that means. Now get out of my chambers before I set Ser Gregor on you.
Jaime was predictably aghast at hearing the news. He kept reminding her of what the bank would do if they did not pay, as if the queen needed reminding. She was Lord Tywin’s daughter. She had made mistakes with the Faith Militant and the Tyrells before, but no more.
When it became clear to her brother that Cersei was not listening, Jaime spoke about something else. “There is quiet in the streets,” he said. “For now,” he added hastily. “But they need food, and even more, they need assurances that their throats will not be slit in the middle of the night. We cannot rule an empire on fear alone.”
Cersei disagreed. The Targaryens were nothing without their dragons. Cersei did not have one, but that would not stop her. She played to win.
*
Comments