The bride-to-be wore an ivory silk gown with a Myrish lace skirt, adorned with countless tiny pearls forming delicate blossoms. She looked utterly charming.
As Renly's widow, she should have worn the gold and black of House Baratheon, yet she chose the colors of House Tyrell instead, to display her purity. Her bridal cloak was green velvet, embroidered with a hundred golden roses.
Hmph. All for show. Does my nephew even know whether she's still a virgin? Not that he'd understand—or be able to do anything about it.
The king looked just as splendid, wearing a dark rose surcoat beneath a deep crimson velvet cloak embroidered with stags and lions. His crown rested easily atop his curls, the two shades of gold blending into one.
Tyrion sat not far away, with only his sister and father between him and the king, focusing on the forty-nine dishes laid out before him.
Outside the city walls, the poor slipped beneath the stars into the Blackwater Rush, risking their lives for the grain that kept them alive.
And here he was, taking just one bite from each dish, thinking he ought to pack the leftovers and sell them in Flea Bottom.
Arianne Martell sat beside him, refusing to sit with her uncle—likely because Tyrion's table was far more entertaining.
Sansa Stark sat expressionless in the back row, simply dressed, her head bowed as she avoided everyone's gaze.
Could she still be hoping to take Margaery's place? Tyrion frowned. Even a three-year-old wouldn't think that foolishly.
Arya Stark sat beside her sister, muttering curses and occasionally kicking the back of Tyrion's chair. Shae and Brienne had no idea how to deal with the tomboy.
Brienne, meanwhile, wore a pink gown—the largest size they could find—though it still bared her knees. The lace made her look like a pink bear.
At the back sat Ser Bronn of the Blackwater and Podrick.
The royal couple chatted cheerfully as hymns filled the throne room and guests mingled in celebration.
When the music stopped, Queen Cersei rose.
"Your Grace, the Small Council has judged it both unwise and improper for our king to wed the daughter of a traitor who has been lawfully executed. Moreover, her brother still refuses to lower his rebel banner and submit to the Crown. For the good of the realm, Your Grace, the Small Council implores you to make a resolute decision—annul your betrothal to Sansa Stark and take Lady Margaery as your queen."
More posturing.
Tyrion took a sip of wine. I should stand up and point out the king's 'dilemma,' embarrass little Joff in front of everyone.
The nobles in the hall immediately reacted like trained hounds, shouting in excitement.
"Margaery!" they cried. "We want Margaery! No traitor queen! Give us Tyrell! Give us Tyrell!"
Joffrey raised a hand.
"As king, I must heed the will of my people. Yet, Mother, you know my betrothal was made before the gods, solemn and binding."
The High Septon stepped forward.
"Your Grace, while the gods indeed uphold betrothals, when the late king pledged this marriage at Winterfell the Stark family's treachery had not yet been revealed. Now their deeds lie exposed, their crimes are monstrous, and gods and men alike are outraged. They must be hunted down and slain. There is no need to honor old friendships or keep past vows. Your Grace, I declare in the name of the gods that your obligation is lifted and this betrothal is null and void!"
"I will take Margaery Tyrell as my wife!" Joffrey declared eagerly. "Fill the cup!"
His cupbearer hurried forward and poured an entire jug of dark red wine from the Arbor into the golden goblet gifted that morning by the Tyrell Great Lord. The king lifted it with both hands. "To my wife, Her Grace the Queen!"
Tyrion glanced at the Knight of Flowers standing among the Kingsguard. Sharpen your blade, Ser Loras.
"Long live Margaery!" the hall answered. "Long live Margaery! Long live Margaery! To the Queen!" A thousand goblets chimed together, and the feast officially began.
Tyrion Lannister drank his first cup like everyone else, then had it refilled as he returned to his seat.
"The wine from the Arbor tastes like watered-down paint," Arianne Martell frowned, swirling her crystal goblet—a gift from Dorne, its twin now in Tyrion's hand. "You should visit Dorne if you have the chance."
Her frown was exquisite, nothing like Little Rose's—a different kind of beauty.
The first course was a rich stew of mushrooms and buttered snails, served in gilded bowls. Bone-weary from recent exertions, Tyrion ate heartily and cleared his bowl in short order. One course finished, forty-eight remained.
Children starved to death in the city every day. Commoners fought over a single carrot, yet here we sat with forty-nine courses we could not finish. If the common folk were allowed into this hall, they would never again favor the Tyrells.
Father spoke cheerfully with Mace Tyrell. Prince Oberyn told some joke that made his paramour laugh aloud. My nephew rose, the future Queen at his arm, and they moved through the banquet hall, toasting and speaking with the guests under the guard of the Kingsguard.
"Well, Uncle," Joffrey came up to Tyrion. "Why sit among my lords? You condescend to join us here."
The future Queen extended her hand and Tyrion kissed it lightly.
"Ah, Sansa, my former betrothed," Joffrey said, scanning the figures behind Tyrion.
"Your Majesty," Sansa rose and curtsied faintly. "May you and Queen Margaery find happiness..."
"Sansa." Joffrey suddenly cupped her chin. "Why aren't you crying? You should be weeping over the broken betrothal! Let everyone see how heartbroken you are that you cannot marry me!"
Bloody hell, Tyrion thought, shouting at the Kingsguard, "My nephew's drunk. Get him back to his quarters."
"I'm not drunk!" Joffrey snarled at Sansa. "Tell me, you live in the Tower of the Hand. Did my uncle climb into your bed?"
Brienne clapped a hand over Arya's mouth and hauled her back.
Tyrion's face went blacker than the stepping stones in a privy.
"No, my lord, he did not," Sansa murmured, head bowed, a soft sob escaping.
"Are you two deaf?" Tyrion glared at the Kingsguard—Sandor Clegane the Hound and Meryn Trant.
Damn dog. If not for me, you would have fled for your life at the Blackwater.
Sansa began to sob loudly. Margaery came over to steady her and dab at her eyes. "My lord, let us go. This is enough. Look how distressed Lady Sansa is."
"Not enough! This is not enough, not nearly enough!" Joffrey's face contorted into something like the Mad King's. "I want her to cry! Louder! Louder! If you don't know how to make her cry, Meryn Trant, teach him! Give her two slaps!"
The Kingsguard stepped forward from behind the king, reaching for Sansa Stark.
"Enough!"