"I think the man who murdered his king at his own feast and crowned another lord has no place at my betrothal."
Tyrion couldn't decide which was sweeter—the stunned silence that fell over the hall, the explosive laughter of Greatjon and Wylis, or the Freys' uncontrollable fury.
"Lust Demon, what did you just say?" Black Walder spat, flecks of saliva flying. "We're the ones who won this war for you!"
"You sold your souls for scraps when the war was already won," Tyrion corrected calmly.
"My lord, we are allies of House Lannister," said Pimple-faced Petyr Frey, holding his enraged brother back. "We are kin by marriage to the Lannisters—"
"Bullshit! You're no ally of mine." Tyrion snatched up a plate and hurled it, broth splattering across the table and onto Grey Wind's pelt. "Kin? Walder Frey would happily let every noble in the Seven Kingdoms bed his daughters and granddaughters—just like you two bastards!"
Petyr's pimpled face turned crimson as his eyes darted toward Daven.
"Daven Lannister will never marry a Frey," Tyrion went on. "Since when does a lion lie with a weasel?"
Black Walder shot to his feet, thick and broad like a young Rodrik Cassel. Could Tyrion take him with just his fists of stone?
"What are you planning to do?" Daven stood as well, hurling his wooden mug to the floor so that ale splashed across the tiles. Then Lancel, Marbrand, and half the Westerlands lords rose in unison. Greatjon burst out laughing, pounding the table with his fists, while Wylis Manderly's great belly heaved up and down as he wheezed with mirth.
"Before I change my mind and become as shameless as you, trampling on guest right, get out of my sight!" Tyrion shouted. "Go back to your filthy den and wait for me to burn it to the ground!"
Black Walder's face turned dark as his name. Trembling, he grabbed Petyr by the arm and stormed out, the rest of House Frey trailing behind.
"Music! Music!" Margaery cried, leaping to her feet. The musicians on the dais snapped out of their stupor and began playing again.
"Sansa, come—shall we dance?" she said, taking the girl's hand.
Tyrion helped his betrothed to her feet. "Go, Sansa. Stretch your legs a bit. Arya, go with your sister. You too, Lady Brienne."
He hurried to send them off, for he saw his father approaching.
"I thought Sansa Stark might bring you to your senses," Lord Tywin said, standing before him in his usual precise, measured tone. "But it seems she's only clouded them further."
"Indeed, Father. I've always had a weakness for women," Tyrion replied lightly. "I am Sansa's husband, after all. I must fulfill my husbandly duties—don't you agree?"
"Yes. You are Sansa's husband. You are heir to Casterly Rock," Tywin said coldly. "But you are not my son. Enjoy the rest of the feast with your vassals."
He turned and walked away. Cersei gave Tyrion a look of smug satisfaction before rising to follow.
Jaime came up beside him, giving his shoulder a pat. "You did nothing wrong," he said quietly, then followed after their father.
Tyrion sat back in his chair, breathing hard.
A moment later, someone lowered herself into the seat Sansa had vacated—it was Aunt Genna.
"I'm sorry, Aunt," Tyrion said quietly. "I forgot you're married to a member of House Frey. That was terribly rude of me."
"I didn't come here just to hear an apology," his aunt replied with a small smile, taking his hand. "I came to comfort you."
"I don't need comforting," Tyrion said.
"But your face is white as chalk."
"Father said..." Tyrion paused, recalling the Red Viper's words. "He said I'm not his son."
"He often says things meant to wound."
"You don't need to defend him," Tyrion shook his head. "I often think about those rumors... sometimes I even start to doubt."
Aunt Genna laughed warmly. "Did you know, when Walder Frey convinced my father to marry me to Emmon, I was only seven? Emmon was Lord Frey's second son—not even his heir."
"My father—your grandfather—was the third son. Your father never spoke of him, did he? Younger sons always crave their elders' approval. The Freys sensed that weakness. My father agreed to the match just to please Lord Frey. Half the great houses of the Westerlands came to my betrothal feast. Ellyn Tarbeck laughed out loud, and the Red Lion stormed off in rage."
"The others said nothing. Only Tywin dared to object. He was barely in his teens then."
"Your grandfather turned as pale as mare's milk, and Walder Frey shook all over—just like that Black Walder tonight. After that, how could I not love your father? I'm not saying I approve of everything he's done, or who he's become... but every little girl needs a big brother to protect her."
"Your father was a giant even as a boy, and so are you now," Aunt Genna said. "You are his son, without a doubt. Forget the gossip. Tonight you upheld our family's honor, kept it from sinking into the mud. You did what your father did fifty years ago—you proved yourself a true Lannister."
"What are you still worried about?" she asked. "Casterly Rock? Look over there."
Tyrion followed her gaze and saw Daven and Lancel raising their cups to him.
"Perhaps your brother is braver," Genna went on. "He smiles like Gerion, fights like Tyg, and carries something of Kevan's spirit—else he'd never have worn white. But I've told Tywin before: you are his son. More rebellious, more reckless, more cunning—but that's what it means to be a Lannister."
"Go on, boy, stand up." She took his hand. "Go down there, toast the others, drink until you can't stand."
Tyrion drew a deep breath, stood, and carried his cup into the crowd.
No sooner had he stepped off the dais than people surrounded him. They praised his victory at the Blackwater, mocked the Freys' shamelessness. The young clapped him on the shoulder; the old clinked glasses and called for toasts.
Daven threw an arm around his neck. "Now you owe me a new wife."
Tyrion laughed, pushing him off. "Don't worry. She'll be far nobler than a Frey."
He made his way to the dance floor, where Sansa was dancing gracefully with Margaery.
"My lady, might I have this dance?"
Margaery released her hand and stepped aside.
In Sansa's blue eyes, Tyrion saw the reflection of his own mismatched—green and violet.
"Yes, my lord."