Feast Cersei

Lord Tywin’s eyes are closed forever now, Cersei thought. It is my look they will flinch from now,
my frown that they must fear. I am a lion too.
It was gloomy within the sept with the sky so grey outside. If the rain ever stopped, the sun would
slant down through the hanging crystals to drape the corpse in rainbows. The Lord of Casterly Rock
deserved rainbows. He had been a great man. I shall be greater, though. A thousand years from
now, when the maesters write about this time, you shall be remembered only as Queen Cersei’s
sire.
=====
The tower went up with a whoosh. In half a heartbeat its interior was alive with light, red, yellow,
orange . . . and green, an ominous dark green, the color of bile and jade and pyromancer’s piss. “The
substance,” the alchemists named it, but common folk called it wildfire. Fifty pots had been placed
inside the Tower of the Hand, along with logs and casks of pitch and the greater part of the worldly
possessions of a dwarf named Tyrion Lannister.
...
Cersei thought of all the King’s Hands that she had known through the years: Owen Merryweather,
Jon Connington, Qarlton Chelsted, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, her brother Tyrion. And her father, Lord
Tywin Lannister, her father most of all. All of them are burning now, she told herself, savoring the
thought. They are dead and burning, every one, with all their plots and schemes and betrayals. It is
my day now. It is my castle and my kingdom.