A Feast For Crows by George R. R. Martin Page A

The secret door that Ser Osmund had spoken of gaped open behind the ashes, no bigger than an oven. A man would need to crawl.
But Tyrion is only half a man.
The thought made her angry.
No, the dwarf is locked in a black cell.
This could not be his work.
Stannis,
she told herself,
Stannis was behind it. He still has adherents in the city. Him, or the Tyrells . . .
    There had always been talk of secret passages within the Red Keep. Maegor the Cruel was supposed to have killed the men who built the castle to keep the knowledge of them secret.
How many other bedchambers have hidden doors?
Cersei had a sudden vision of the dwarf crawling out from behind a tapestry in Tommen’s bedchamber with blade in hand.
Tommen is well guarded,
she told herself. But Lord Tywin had been well guarded too.
    For a moment she did not recognize the dead man. He had hair like her father, yes, but this was some other man, surely, a smaller man, and much older. His bedrobe was hiked up around his chest, leaving him naked below the waist. The quarrel had taken him in his groin between his navel and his manhood, and was sunk so deep that only the fletching showed. His pubic hair was stiff with dried blood. More was congealing in his navel.
    The smell of him made her wrinkle her nose. “Take the quarrel out of him,” she commanded. “This is the King’s Hand!”
And my father. My lord father. Should I scream and tear my hair?
They said Catelyn Stark had clawed her own face to bloody ribbons when the Freys slew her precious Robb.
Would you like that, Father?
she wanted to ask him.
Or would you want me to be strong? Did you weep for your own father?
Her grandfather had died when she was only a year old, but she knew the story. Lord Tytos had grown very fat, and his heart burst one day when he was climbing the steps to his mistress. Her father was off in King’s Landing when it happened, serving as the Mad King’s Hand. Lord Tywin was often away in King’s Landing when she and Jaime were young. If he wept when they brought him word of his father’s death, he did it where no one could see the tears.
    The queen could feel her nails digging into her palms. “How could you leave him like this? My father was Hand to three kings, as great a man as ever strode the Seven Kingdoms. The bells must ring for him, as they rang for Robert. He must be bathed and dressed as befits his stature, in ermine and cloth-of-gold and crimson silk. Where is Pycelle?
Where is Pycelle?
” She turned to the guardsmen. “Puckens, bring Grand Maester Pycelle. He must see to Lord Tywin.”
    “He’s seen him, Your Grace,” said Puckens. “He came and saw and went, to summon the silent sisters.”
    They sent for me last.
The realization made her almost too angry for words.
And Pycelle runs off to send a message rather than soil his soft, wrinkled hands. The man is useless.
“Find Maester Ballabar,” she commanded. “Find Maester Frenken. Any of them.” Puckens and Shortear ran to obey. “Where is my brother?”
    “Down the tunnel. There’s a shaft, with iron rungs set in the stone. Ser Jaime went to see how deep it goes.”
    He has only one hand,
she wanted to shout at them.
One of you should have gone. He has no business climbing ladders. The men who murdered Father might be down there, waiting for him.
Her twin had always been too rash, and it would seem that even losing a hand had not taught him caution. She was about to command the guards to go down after him and bring him back when Puckens and Shortear returned with a grey-haired man between them. “Your Grace,” said Shortear, “this here claims he was a maester.”
    The man bowed low. “How may I serve Your Grace?”
    His face was vaguely familiar, though Cersei could not place him.
Old, but not so old as Pycelle. This one has some strength in him still.
He was tall, though slightly stooped, with crinkles around his bold blue eyes.
His throat is naked.
“You wear no maester’s chain.”
    “It was taken from