The Purple Wedding
Beneath the waving banners—Baratheon's golden crown, Lannister's crimson lion, Tyrell's emerald green rose—sat the lords and ladies of the realm. Each sigil represented an ancient and noble house with a long, storied history.
They feasted and drank at the long rows of tables, gradually growing louder and more intoxicated.
Sansa gazed at the silk banners hanging where dragon skulls once adorned the walls. In the flickering candlelight, she could almost see their shadows, their empty eye sockets seeming to watch the wedding guests with hollow judgment.
Servants brought forth an enormous pastry, two yards long. From within came the sounds of birds—screaming, fluttering, fighting for escape.
Her dwarf husband had just returned to the table, his clothes soaked with red wine. Joffrey had tipped his golden goblet over Tyrion's head, pouring the contents down the Imp's cheeks and over his fine garments.
The king appeared ready to use Widow's Wail to cut the massive cake, but Queen Margaery laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Widow's Wail is not meant for cutting cakes, Your Grace."
Joffrey yielded to her counsel and summoned Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice, also known as the royal executioner.
The silent knight unsheathed a six-foot-long Valyrian steel greatsword, its blade dark as smoke and wider than a man's hand.
"Ice!" Sansa's heart cried out in recognition. That was her father's sword.
Joffrey and Margaery had to work together to lift the massive blade. They brought it down upon the pastry, and hundreds of white doves burst eagerly from the shattered crust.
Thunder-like cheers erupted as singers and musicians played triumphant notes to mark the occasion.
Servants brought slices of the cake to Cole, but he found his appetite had vanished.
Cole had been relating interesting tales of the Wall to Duran.
"Uncle, where do you think you're going? You're my cupbearer—you're not permitted to leave!" They heard Joffrey shouting.
The drunken king grew increasingly unrestrained.
Cole suddenly stopped talking and narrowed his eyes, watching intently.
Joffrey took a hearty bite of pigeon pie, chewing zealously. Finding it too dry, he reached for his wine goblet and took a deep swallow.
Though Tyrion had been humiliated by the royal brat, he clearly wished to avoid creating a greater scene. He played along, acting as cupbearer, holding the wine goblet for his nephew.
"I want you—cough—to ride that—cough—pig, Uncle. I want you..." Joffrey suddenly broke into violent coughing.
The pig in question had been brought by the troupe of dwarfs to mock the wedding guests.
Joffrey, feeling his throat constrict, took another gulp of wine.
This time, he sprayed it out in a mist before him. His face rapidly turned crimson, veins bulging beneath his skin, pupils drowning in red.
All laughter and merriment ceased abruptly as shocked gazes turned toward the high dais.
Clang!
The goblet fell from his hand, wine spilling across the floor.
Joffrey clutched at his throat, producing a low, hoarse hiss.
Ser Garlan Tyrell vaulted over the long table and rushed behind Joffrey, delivering a sharp blow between his shoulder blades. Ser Osmund Kettleblack slashed open the king's collar, while Joffrey clawed at his throat, leaving red fingerprints against his pulsing neck.
His face transformed from crimson to purple-black, his eyes wild with terror. As he collapsed to the ground, his eyes began to roll back in his head. With his final strength, he pointed an accusing finger at Tyrion.
"No, no, no, no," Cersei wailed hoarsely. "Father, save him! Someone save him! He's my son, my firstborn..."
Queen Cersei rushed forward with all her might, but her skirts caught on the table's edge, sending her sprawling. Ignoring the pain and the state of her gown, she crawled desperately to Joffrey's side, cradling his body in her arms.
Her heartbreaking screams echoed throughout the hall.
Chaos erupted around them. Guests ran in every direction, trampling one another, all previous decorum forgotten. They cried out and shouted; some staggered drunkenly, some vomited, others turned pale as corpses.
The High Septon knelt beside the body, offering final prayers.
The new queen, Margaery, collapsed into her mother's embrace, sobbing.
Among those present, only Lord Tywin Lannister and Cole maintained their composure.
Cole rose calmly, preparing to depart.
"He choked, sweetling. It's not your fault he choked on the pie. We all saw him choking," Lady Alerie comforted Margaery.
"He was not choking," Cersei's tone cut sharper than Valyrian steel. "My son was poisoned." She glared at the helpless Kingsguard surrounding them. "Kingsguard, do your duty."
"Arrest my brother immediately," she commanded. "It was him who did this—the dwarf and his young wife. They killed my son, your king. Seize them! Seize them both!"
The Kingsguard quickly surrounded the Imp.
"Stop! I'm not a murderer, Cersei." Tyrion stood stunned by the accusation, his words slurred from wine.
"Gods be good, I'm his uncle. How could I harm him?" Tyrion protested.
"Take him! He is the murderer!" Cersei ordered, beyond reason. The white knights dutifully performed their sworn task, arresting the dwarf.
As Tyrion was escorted through the hall under guard, Cole silently stepped aside. The Imp raised his head, meeting Cole's gaze for a brief moment.
"An unforgettable wedding," Prince Oberyn remarked, approaching Cole.
The prince had been visibly startled by the sudden death.
They exited the hall together, and the prince spoke quietly. "The death resembled that of the strangler."
The Red Viper was a master of poisons. He chuckled darkly, "I thought they might accuse me of administering the poison."
The strangler was a potent poison that could swiftly suffocate its victims. When dissolved in wine, it caused the drinker's throat muscles to constrict violently, blocking the windpipe. It was said that victims' faces often turned the same purple as the crystals—exactly like the symptoms of choking.
'The strangler' was the name the Citadel had given this poison, which seemed entirely fitting.
"Who do you think is responsible? Tyrion?" Cole asked.
"The dwarf? Quite possible. After all, the little king treated him abominably, and he was closest to the wine goblet."
Dong. Dong. Dong.
The bells of the Great Sept of Baelor tolled thrice, announcing to all of King's Landing—indeed, to the entire realm—the death of King Joffrey I Baratheon.
Soon, all manner of rumors would spread through Flea Bottom. He had died as absurdly as his father, the Boar King. One killed by a wild boar, the other choked to death on pie. A cruel jest of the gods.
While preparations for the king's funeral began, the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, swiftly convened the Small Council.
Lord Redwyne, Lord Rowan, Prince Oberyn of Dorne, and Queen Cersei gathered at his summons.
"Grand Maester, can the cause of the king's death be determined?" Lord Tywin inquired.
The Grand Maester replied in a trembling voice, "My lord Hand, we are investigating various poisons. Please permit the maesters to examine His Grace's body to discover the truth behind the king's death."