Tyrion had expected the betrothal ceremony to be postponed for quite some time, but his father, Tywin, insisted on holding it early, citing the unstable political climate and the danger of "letting things drag on."
Unlike Joffrey's grand engagement feast, Tyrion's ceremony was held in the council chamber of the Tower of the Hand. Though smaller than the throne room and lacking its extravagance, the place was still packed to capacity.
Tyrion sat on the dais, his father on his left. Lord Tywin and Mace Tyrell sat side by side, whispering between drinks—a place that should have belonged to Eddard Stark. Behind them stood his sister and brother.
His dutiful nephew was nowhere to be seen. Tyrion had spoken with his sister beforehand; the ceremony itself was trial enough, and after enduring it, he would become heir to Casterly Rock. He preferred not to invite further trouble.
The eldest Stark girl sat immediately to his right, with Arya and Brienne seated further down.
"Sansa, could you lift your head and smile a little?"
"My apologies, my lord." The bride-to-be raised her head at his words, forcing a stiff, practiced smile.
"Pah, oathbreaker," Arya spat from the side before Brienne quickly covered her mouth. "My lady, that was unseemly."
Tyrion sighed and glanced over the crowd below. They were all nobles, though unlike the courtly gatherings at the royal feasts, these were the "military nobles"—lords and castellans, seasoned knights, masters-at-arms, and captains of the City Watch. At the far end, he even spotted a familiar scout captain. Casterly Rock hadn't spent much gold on the feast, but it had certainly cost them many favors.
"Let me have a look at the handsome Lust Demon. What did I tell you? Two jilted lovers always end up together." Lady Olenna's sharp voice cut through the din as she entered, supported by Margaery. "A fine groom indeed. Lord Eddard would have laughed himself silly to see this."
"My good lady, you flatter me too much," Tyrion said with a wry smile.
"Nonsense. Would Lady Sansa ever refuse a praise from me?" The Queen of Thorns clasped Sansa's hand. "Look at this lovely girl—give her a few years, and even my dear Margaery will pale beside her. Come now, rise."
Sansa stood and kissed the old woman's cheek.
Tyrion noticed Margaery watching him, but he deliberately avoided meeting her gaze.
"Sweetheart," Lady Olenna said to her granddaughter, "go sit with Lady Sansa, will you? She looks dreadfully nervous."
Indeed, Sansa's hands were trembling.
Margaery pulled up a chair and settled between Sansa and Arya. She wouldn't actually try to poison her, would she? Tyrion thought grimly.
Guests approached one after another to offer their congratulations and gifts. Daven Lannister brought him a pouch of golden dragons—the spoils from the Battle of Duskendale. Lancel Lannister's gift was a belt buckle inlaid with rubies forming a red heart, said to have belonged to Stannis. His aunt, Genna Lannister—broad-faced and stout, now married into House Frey—presented Sansa with a golden necklace.
Other lesser lords followed—Marbrand, Quenten Banefort—and before long, gifts of every size had piled up at their feet.
Then Bronn entered, flanked by Greatjon Umber and Wylis Manderly—their northern prisoners. One was towering, the other heavyset, both now dressed in clean clothes.
"My lady, my blessings upon you," Greatjon said, dropping to one knee before Sansa and kissing the back of her hand. Only then did Tyrion notice the chains still clinking around his wrists.
"Bronn?" Tyrion gestured toward them. "Is this how we treat guests from the North?"
"Dear groom," Bronn said, patting Greatjon's massive shoulder, "this one's seven feet tall. If he decided to bash your skull in, no one here could stop him."
"My betrothed wouldn't let her own bannerman crush me," Tyrion said, glancing at Sansa. "Right, my lady?"
"Yes, my lord." Sansa nodded softly. "Lord Umber, I trust you won't harm anyone, will you?"
Greatjon's jaw tightened. "As you wish, my lady."
Bronn led them away and unlocked their shackles in a quiet corner of the hall.
Next came the Freys.
Black Walder, short, thickset, and bearded, arrived with his pockmarked younger brother Petyr. They placed a silver goblet upon the table before Tyrion.
"My lord, this is the very cup Robb Stark once used. The King in the North was holding this silver goblet when he was shot dead."
Margaery's voice suddenly rose, as if trying to drown out what was being said.
"And this." Pimple-faced Petyr Frey spread out a roll of hide across the table. "This is the Young Wolf's wolf pelt—oh, the beast's pelt, not human skin." He ran his fingers along the fur as he spoke. "The creature was massive. It frightened my horse so badly I nearly broke my neck. And the beast even had a name. What was it again?"
"Grey Wind. Shame we couldn't save the head." Black Walder pointed to the neck of the pelt.
"The beast's head was hacked off and sewn onto the corpse of the King in the North—"
"Enough."
Tyrion fought the urge to fling his wine in the man's face, catching sight of his father's watchful eyes at the edge of his vision.
"Thank you for your… generosity. Now leave." Tyrion dismissed them curtly.
Before long, the feast officially began. The first course was a salad of peas, onions, and carrots—utterly flavorless, like chewing wax. Music filled the air from the gallery above: the wail of flutes, the trembling pipes, the screech of violins, and the bellow of horns. Worst of all was the drumbeat—thump, thump, thump—pounding in his skull until it made him dizzy.
The dissonant music clashed with the noise of guests eating, laughing, and shouting. From across the hall, he saw Bronn with Greatjon and Wylis, the latter drinking ale and talking animatedly. Black Walder and Daven kept raising their cups, apparently toasting to their new family ties.
Arya sampled her food, the careless little girl sneaking glances at him between bites. If not for Brienne's watchful presence, she'd probably have tried to tear his clothes herself.
The second course arrived—leek and clam cream soup. Gods, what fool of a cook thought that was a good idea?
He caught himself wondering how Sansa might react if he leaned in to kiss her. She probably wouldn't pull away. Even if they weren't yet wed—if he told her tonight was the night—she would obey. But would she cry for him?
Sansa's face remained composed. She tasted the soup, then pushed the bowl aside.
"Not to your liking, my lady?" Tyrion asked.
"There are still many dishes to come, my lord. My appetite is small. I shouldn't overeat." Her nails pressed into her palms as she stared tensely toward the center of the crowd.
Black Walder was causing a stir there, wearing a wolfskin mask. From where Tyrion sat, he couldn't tell if it was a real wolf's head or a grotesque imitation. The man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, swaying exaggeratedly like a rider on horseback.
Seven hells. Was Robb Stark's corpse paraded like this, tied to a horse's back? These sewer rats—how dare they mock him here...
He turned to Sansa. Margaery was gently wiping the girl's tears.
"Dear Sansa, why cry?" Margaery soothed, holding her handkerchief. "Lord Tyrion is the hero of the Blackwater, the handsome heir to Casterly Rock. Don't you love him? You should be happy."
"Yes, I love him," Sansa whispered through her sobs. "These are tears of joy."
Gods damn it.
Tyrion snatched up the silver goblet and hurled it toward Black Walder.
The cup traced a perfect arc through the air and clattered to the floor at Petyr Frey's feet. The hall fell silent in an instant—two hundred pairs of eyes turned to stare at Tyrion.
...
If you'd like to support my work and unlock advanced chapters, you can follow me on P@treon.
[Upto 50 chapters ahead for now]
[email protected]/BlurryDream