Saint River: you kind of hit the nail on the head with what I was going for, only you got the Lyanna and the Elia of the story the wrong way round

DraekonGreycloak: I only hope this beats the last one in your eyes

Hail Emperor Naruto: I'll say nothing of the possibility in you being undoubtedly, possibly, likely in the correctness of your review.

Archagel9418: He might... if he's lucky


The Purple Wedding – Part 3

Pregnant.

The word hung heavy around Arianne's shoulders, forcing to her to remain seated otherwise her legs give out beneath the weight of the body they held up. It was late afternoon now, and the sun was tilting over toward the west and light clouds brewed for the final pink and orange display for dusk before the sun would set. The glow cast through the open window sent a dull orange throughout the bedchamber, from where the yellowish sunlight met the bold scarlet of the Lannister drapes and bright orange curtains of House Martell.

Arianne ran one hand over the furs and sheets of the bed, while the other massaged at her belly. It would swell in a few weeks, to make room for the baby growing inside of her. Part of her felt she should have been surprised, but when she thought on it, no shock could come about it. They made love every night, the Princess of Dorne and her husband. He would more often than not spill himself within her and given she was now married Arianne saw no need for moon tea.

Thinking of the nine months to follow intrigued her. Her always loving husband caressing her swollen belly and talking to the lion cub growing in his darling wife, nestling within the soft covers of her bed while humming herself and the soon to be born to sleep. Yes, it would be bliss.

The thought of the birthing worried her a little. Arianne had been surrounded by an ever expanding family and was no stranger to the various problems that could occur when birthing a child. Then there was her husband to think of. Bruce was… unpredictable, and there would be no telling of his own reaction. Fatherhood would be an alien prospect to the Young Lion, his own being an almost complete stranger to him, but the Princess of Dorne had no doubts her lion was up to the task.

Where the baby was to be born was a pleasant thought. Bruce had said he would very much enjoy visiting Dorne with her, perhaps he would be willing to stay at Sunspear until the babe was born and well enough to travel. She would like that being back at home with her Sand Snake cousins and childhood friends. Ellaria Sand had always said childbirth was easier when surrounded by friends and family as well as the usual array of midwives and maesters. With four children beneath her, Arianne knew better than to question the words of the Red Viper's paramour.

She looked out of the window upon the city, stinking of shit and death while brimming in its own malice. This was no fit place for a child to grow up. Even the Crown Prince, while born here, did most of his growing up in Casterly Rock. No. Her child would not be condemned to live here, lest it was with Arianne's wish for it to be so, not even Bruce would have a say in the matter.

The image of the child to be born made her smile. A handsome boy or a beautiful girl, it didn't matter she could see what the baby would look like already. Hair black as a crow like its mother, high cheek bones and flashing green eyes of the father. Yes, the baby would be perfect and have lots of brothers and sisters to follow. The old, golden haired breed of lions would be ousted from the Rock and new pride of bold and black lions would seat their place for the next hundred thousand years. Arianne could see it all so clearly now.

She patted her stomach and looked down at herself, "Soon, little one. Soon." She promised the unborn, her face swelling with pride. Arianne heard an uproar of the crowd from the tourney field. It was loud and half cheered and half booed yet retained and overwhelming notation of shock, she had missed her lions triumph but once she told her husband why he was certain to forgive her.

Her uncle's maester had confirmed what she had felt, but she still cursed the Red Viper for what he whispered in her ear. It was not surprising to her, Prince Oberyn had eight daughters and had since developed a sixth sense for sniffing out pregnant women. Yet his niece could not forgive him for so bluntly asking about her moon blood in public and in front of the Lannister and Tyrell families.

The old man said she was showing the symptoms of being with child, yet said that until she felt the quickening he would not confirm the confirm the fact only advise on it should she ask him to. But the more Arianne thought on it the more she liked the idea and the more she knew it to be true. She was with child and she was happier than she had ever been.

From the door came a series of hurried bangs from a steel clad fist, someone come to fetch her no doubt. The Princess rose from the bed, righted her flowing silks and the long ringlets that made up her hair and called for the escort to enter. An eyebrow rose once she caught sight of the man sent to fetch her to the field.

One of the Kingsguard, still in his bloodied cloak and white scales, looking gaunt and haggard from the melee he'd just been in. He was big across the chest, and had arms thick with muscle but his face was pale and growing to match the colour of his cloak. Blood was trickling from his left arm, which he held close to his chest. "My Lady," He said panting heavily, "You must come quickly. The prince is wounded and in need of you."

Her stomach tightened and she felt her legs buckle. Wounded and in need of me. Bruce's wounds must be great, for the wounded knight to have come so quickly from the field. A word caught in the back of Arianne's mind which made her turn to water. Fatal. In Dorne wounded men only sent for their wives when they knew the Stranger was coming for them. No, she thought, no, not my lion. My sweet black lion, no!

In a flash of swirling orange silks, the Princess of Dorne took from the room. She pushed the injured Kingsguard out of the door frame and began to run from the Red Keep to the melee arena. The keep was huge and more like a maze but Arianne did not let it beat her. Passing countless tapestries, rushing servants and dormant suits of ancient Targaryen mail the Princess continued running as fast as she could until she found the courtyard that led to the field which hosted the mass of pavilions for the knights.

She would not allow the tears to prick at her eyes yet, not until she found her lion, not until she knew he was safe and free from harm. The Princess of Dorne slowed her pace to a slight jog as she manoeuvred through the tents of half a hundred houses. Dayne, Dalt, Yronwood, Tyrell, Redwyne, Fossoway, Hightower, Payne, Marbrand, Lannister. On and on went the rows of pavilions until finally the great tents for the melee combatants were about her.

They would have brought him hear, she thought as her viper eyes scouted about furiously looking for a sign of her husband's whereabouts. A crowd gathered about a number of tents that had all been cordoned off from the rest of the pavilions. Arianne hurriedly approached the mob of people and began to push and shove her way through them.

Armoured knights, High Lords, women, children, septon, squire. It made no difference to the Princess of Dorne as she elbowed her way passed them. A pained shout went out over the crowd, which seemed to drive them all forward. The cry made her blood chill, he's dying alone without me, and I have to reach him, now. Before it's too late.

Before long, Arianne was at the front of the mob and saw they were being held at bay by three Kingsguard and gold cloaks with shields and spears, trying to hold back men. Behind them was the Kingslayer who caught sight of Arianne and forced a gap between his sworn brothers to reach her. Ser Jaime yanked her by the wrist and pulled behind the shield wall.

"He's in there," pointed the Lord Commander, "He is wounded, but they say he will be well. Go to him." Arianne would not believe the Lannister's words until she saw her lion with her own eyes. She followed where the white knight pointed without hesitation and found herself in the middle of large square of five tents.

On the whole, the yard was fifty yards from tent to tent. Outside one sat a weeping Queen Regent, hugging her youngest son close to her. Plump Prince Tommen looked confused as his mother stained his bright gold and crimson tunic with her tears. Arianne had no time to pity the lad as another pained howl from the Crown Prince went out from the snow white tent he was in.

The Princess of Dorne stormed forward and threw apart the flaps of the pavilion. Her big black eyes ran rings around the room in search for her lion. When she found she almost squealed for happiness. He was not dead, she realised as Bruce was barely standing in front of the sickbed from which he had just risen from.

His mouth and nose were stained from his own blood, which flecked in his beard and side whiskers. All the armour he had worn for the melee had been cast off in a rush in order to apply bandages that were already being seeped through with blood. His left arm was bound in a sling of fresh white linen and the shoulder also though that had braces applied to stop them fallen away. Across his right leg was more white linen stretching to the top of his knee to his groin, as well as around his throat. While he may not have been dead the paleness of his face from blood loss made him look as though he was.

When the Crown Prince saw his wife standing in the tent, a ghost of a smile traced his lips as he viewed the tears threatening his eyes. Arianne went to him with such speed that it knocked Bruce from his feet and back onto the bed, his wife sprawled out on top of him. She claimed his lips as her own with licks, kisses and bites at him. He moaned into her mouth, though it may have been a groan from the pain and not pleasure.

Fiercely he bit back at her, the Lion's tongue darting and flashing against her own. When his one working arm wrapped around her and ran along her back soothingly did she begin to slow her kisses, whimpering against him as she licked at his lips a few more times before shifting away slightly. "I… I thought you were dead." She whispered to him, terrified at the prospect that he might have been.

"I'm not?" He said mockingly, hand still rubbing up and down his back and a rumble of laughter came from his chest, "I was wondering what you would be doing in heaven before me." They pressed their lips together once more before she relented and let him sit up while she still straddled him. She ran a hand through his raven hair and blood bristled beard. "Did you kill him?" Asked the Princess, as she scratched at his scalp. While it was Bruce who opened his mouth it was not him who answered.

"If he's not dead, he soon will be." Threatened the Red Viper. Arianne yelped in surprise and pressed herself close to Bruce, who winced at the pressure against his wounded shoulder. She looked about and saw those that had been inside the pavilion as well as Bruce for the first time. Her uncle Oberyn, the Imp, the dusted old fuck of a Grand Maester, and Lord Tywin Lannister. If she had any less decency Arianne would have blushed, yet she was Dornish and too proud of her love and passion to be so modest, so she boldly raised her head while her fingers wove through the Antlered Lion's mane.

"We should leave, my lords." Suggested Tyrion Lannister, rubbing at his one green eye as he turned to exit the tent. The Old Lion grunted an approval of his dwarf son and turned to follow him, as did Grand Maester Pycelle. Only the Red Viper lingered in the room, and beckoned his niece to him. With a final kiss, Arianne slid off her husband and walked over to Prince Oberyn, who stood close to the tent flaps.

"What happened out there?" Demanded the Princess of her uncle. Prince Oberyn raised an eyebrow at the vicious tone behind her voice. "He got his revenge on Tyrell. Though it would have killed him if not for me." Now it was Arianne's turn to raise an eyebrow. "How so?" The Red Viper looked over to the prince, who was busy making himself comfortable on the bed.

Prince Oberyn recalled the events of the melee, and Tyrell's attack on Bruce while he was leaving the field. He told her of how the throw of his spear had saved the Young Lion's life, and of the fact Bruce almost lost his life to Ser Loras as well as an eye. Arianne made a note to ask Bruce the reason for his folly once her uncle left them alone.

As she stood processing the information, Prince Oberyn continued to dart his eyes down to his niece's stomach. "Well? Was I right?" Questioned the Viper, a move that made Arianne's teeth grind together. "It's too early to be sure but… yes, I'm confident I am." The Prince of Dorne nodded knowingly. "Don't tell him yet," he advised her, "Wait a few days, until his strength returns to him." Arianne nodded and saw her uncle leave before curling up beside her husband on the sickbed.

"Are you feeling better now, then?" Asked the Lion of his wife. She nodded and rubbed her cheek against his. "Yes, lover, better. So much better."

Although nightfall was still an hour away, the throne room was already a blaze of light, with torches burning in every sconce. The guests stood along the tables as heralds called out the names and titles of the lords and ladies making their entrance. Pages in the royal livery escorted them down the broad central aisle. The gallery above was packed with musicians; drummers and pipers and fiddlers, strings and horns and skins.

Tyrion clutched Sansa's arm and made the walk with a heavy waddling stride. He could feel their eyes on him. Let them look, he thought as he hopped up onto his seat. Let them stare and whisper until they've had their fill, I will not hide myself for their sake. The Queen of Thorns followed them in, shuffling along with tiny little steps. Tyrion wondered which of them looked more absurd, him with Sansa or the wizened little woman between her seven-foot-tall twin guardsmen.

Joffrey and Margaery rode into the throne room on matched white chargers. Pages ran before them, scattering rose petals under their hooves. The king and queen had changed for the feast as well. Joffrey wore striped black-and-crimson breeches and a cloth-of-gold doublet with black satin sleeves and onyx studs. Margaery had exchanged the demure gown that she had worn in the sept for one much more revealing, a confection in pale green samite with a tight-laced bodice that bared her shoulders and the tops of her small breasts. Unbound, her soft brown hair tumbled over her white shoulders and down her back almost to her waist. Around her brows was a slim golden crown. Her smile was shy and sweet, though her eyes were full of joy, it was put up there to mask her grief. A lovely girl, thought Tyrion, and a kinder fate than this nephew of mine deserves.

The Kingsguard escorted them onto the dais, to the seats of honour beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne, draped for the occasion in long silk streamers of Baratheon gold, Lannister crimson, and Tyrell green. Cersei embraced Margaery and kissed her cheeks and Lord Tywin did the same. Joffrey received loving kisses from the bride's father and the only one of his new brothers present, Garlan the Gallant. No one seemed in any great rush to kiss Tyrion. When the king and queen had taken their seats, the High Septon rose to lead a prayer. At least he does not drone as badly as the last one, Tyrion consoled himself.

He and Sansa had been seated far to the king's right, beside Ser Garlan Tyrell and his wife, the Lady Leonette. A dozen others sat closer to Joffrey, which a pricklier man might have taken for a slight, given that he had been the King's Hand only a short time past. Tyrion would have been glad if there had been a hundred. The only seats further away were the ones on Tyrion's left, reserved for Bruce and his wife at the last minute.

His wounded nephew hung heavily on his mind. Though the injuries would not be fatal, they were bad enough for them not to expect his appearance for the rest of the night. Tyrion never expected such bastardry from the fabled Knight of Flowers, attacking a man when his guard was down and after having just sparred him. Not that it mattered, Tyrell was expected to be dead come morning, though not through any fault of Bruce's thank the gods. Ser Loras' death had been his own making.

"Let the cups be filled!" Joffrey proclaimed, when the gods had been given their due. His cupbearer poured a whole flagon of dark Arbor red into the golden wedding chalice that Lord Tyrell had given him that morning. The king had to use both hands to lift it. "To my wife the queen!"

"Margaery!" the hall shouted back at him. "Margaery! Margaery! To the queen!" A thousand cups rang together, and the wedding feast was well and truly begun. Tyrion Lannister drank with the rest, emptying his cup on that first toast and signalling for it to be refilled as soon as he was seated again. By the time he was seated again the Imp found food already laid in front of him.

Though he had no appetite, Tyrion forced the food into him for his own good. He had scarcely touched the breakfast, and the wine had already gone to his head, so the food was welcome. He finished quickly. One done, seventy-six to come. Seventy-seven dishes, while there are still starving children in this city, and men who would kill for a radish. Yet in spite of this, and the thought of his wounded nephew, Tyrion ate.

Sansa tasted a spoonful of soup and pushed the bowl away. "Not to your liking, my lady?" Tyrion asked. "There's to be so much, my lord. I have a little tummy." She fiddled nervously with her hair and looked down the table to where Joffrey sat with his Tyrell queen. Does she wish it were her in Margaery's place? Tyrion frowned. Even a child should have better sense. He turned away, wanting distraction, but everywhere he looked were women, fair fine beautiful happy women who belonged to other men.

He called for more wine. By the time he got it, the second course was being served, a pastry coffin filled with pork and eggs. Sansa ate no more than a bite of hers, as the heralds were summoning the first of the seven singers. Grey-bearded Hamish the Harper announced that he would perform "for the ears of gods and men, a song never heard before in all the Seven Kingdoms." He called it "Lord Renly's Ruin."

It was a pitiful ballad and went on to tell how Renly had attempted to usurp his nephew's crown and failed at the hands of the gallant king's sword. How inaccurate it was. There was no mention of the valiant Rob's Hammer and the wildfire or how Sandor Clegane had ran from the field, taking a hundred gold cloaks with him and almost handing Renly the city on a plate. Most infuriating to Tyrion, and from what he could see by many of the men who were there, was that everything Bruce had done, according to Hamish the Harper, had be done by his kingly brother instead.

Queen Margaery was teary-eyed by the end, when the shade of brave Lord Renly flew over the hill to steal one last look at his true love's face. A voice from behind Tyrion snorted with laughter. When he turned he was glad to see his one handed brother, "Renly Baratheon never loved anything aside from a cock up his arse," the Kingslayer said boldly leaning over his brother's chair, "but if I'm any judge, Hamish just won himself a gilded lute."

Tyrion laughed and made to speak with his brother, but the applause at the end of it cut him off so he clapped alongside them all. The Harper also gave them several more familiar songs. "A Rose of Gold" was for the Tyrells, no doubt, as "The Rains of Castamere" was meant to flatter his father. "Maiden, Mother, and Crone" delighted the High Septon, and "My Lady Wife" pleased all the little girls with romance in their hearts, and no doubt some little boys as well. Tyrion listened with half an ear, as he sampled sweetcorn fritters and hot bread baked with bits of date, apple, and orange, and gnawed on the rib of a wild boar while keeping good banter with Jaime and Ser Garlan, until the white knight was called away by one of his sworn brothers.

Hamish left them, his place taken by a smallish elderly bear who danced clumsily to pipe and drum while the wedding guests ate trout cooked in a crust of crushed almonds. Moon Boy mounted his stilts and strode around the tables in pursuit of Lord Tyrell's ludicrously fat fool Butterbumps, and the lords and ladies sampled roast herons and cheese-and-onion pies.

After the fools were thrown out the room, due to a bored Joffrey flinging a leg of heron at them, another singer was brought on. This one began with his version of "The Dance of the Dragons." Tyrion suffered through it with a double helping of honey-ginger partridge and several cups of wine. A haunting ballad of two dying lovers amidst the Doom of Valyria might have pleased the hall more if it had not been sung in High Valyrian, which most of the guests could not speak.

After a bow to Lord Tywin, the bard sprung into "The Rains of Castamere." If I have to hear seven versions of that, I may go down to Flea Bottom and drowned myself in the sewer. Tyrion turned to his wife. "So which did you prefer?" Sansa blinked at him. "My lord?" He pointed to where Lord Tywin's favourite song was being sung. "The singers. Which did you prefer?"

"I… I'm sorry, my lord. I was not listening." She was not eating, either. "Sansa, is aught amiss?" He spoke without thinking, and instantly felt the fool. All her kin are slaughtered and she's wed to me, and I wonder what's amiss. "No, my lord." She looked away from him, and feigned an unconvincing interest in the next singer being brought up.

Just as this one bowed to Lord Tywin, and was undoubtedly about to break into that bastard song again, he heralds blew their trumpets and the doors to the Throne Room, bringing all conversation to a stop. "Princess Arianne of Dorne," announced the herald, "And the Crown Prince, Bruce of Casterly Rock!"

There was a great "Oooooh" from many of the drunkards at the announcement of the Lion with Antlers entering. From the head of the dais a very drunk Joffrey spat out the wine he was drinking and shouted, "WHAT?!" Over the silence they heard a cling every few moments as the Young Lion drew nearer to the high table. "Forgive us for being late, Your Graces. I was foolish enough to injure myself in the melee and I needed help with licking my wounds." A lewd laughter went up at Bruce's words as he came into the clearing before the dais.

Bruce held himself upright on a cane for his wounded right leg, while Princess Arianne held his balance by holding his arm bound by a sling. "You're supposed to be dead!" Shouted the drunk king, making Tyrion slap his own brutish forehead. Did the boy not remember the last time he shouted that at his brother?

Evidently his brother did. "The more you want it, Joff, the less like I am to comply." Queen Margaery tugged her husband back to his seat before things could escalate, and Bruce with his own wife's help moved to take the seats beside Tyrion and Sansa. The Young Lion shouted to the bard, as he took his seat, "Play the Rains of Castamere! I haven't heard that one since breakfast!" Unfortunately the man complied.

If his wounds bothered him, Tyrion never would have guest from the way his nephew spoke and laughed with his wife. It made Tyrion smile, it had worked cutting off Tyrell's ear had done it, yet the Imp couldn't help but feel a little sorry that Ser Loras would still die.

After his current ballad was over the singer announced, "Noble lords and ladies fair, I sing but one song for you this night," he announced. "It is the song of the Blackwater, and how a realm was saved." Gods this would be a test of the Lion's temper too early to count on.

The dark lord brooded high in his tower," Galyeon began, "in a castle as black as the night."

"Black was his hair and black was his soul," the musicians chanted in unison. A flute came in.

"He feasted on bloodlust and envy, and filled his cup full up with spite," sang Galyeon. "My brother once ruled seven kingdoms, he said to his innocent wife. I'll take what was his and make it all mine. Let his son feel the point of my knife. A brave young boy with hair of gold," his players chanted, as a wooden harp and a fiddle began to play.

"If I am ever Hand again, the first thing I'll do is hang all the singers," said Tyrion, too loudly. Lady Leonette laughed lightly beside him, and Ser Garlan leaned over to say, "A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant." Bruce snorted into his wine. "It is when it's a bloody lie." Tyrion winced but Ser Garlan accepted the argument. This one's not like his little brother, he knows where to put blame and keep his temper.

"The dark lord assembled his legions, they gathered around him like crows in the sky. And thirsty for blood they ran for the city…"

"AND CUT OUT THE POOR LION'S EYE!" Shouted a jovial Bruce and the whole hall erupted in booming laughter. "Perhaps you should be a singer, Brucey!" Jeered a drunken Ser Daven Lannister. "Aye!" agrees one of the Yronwoods, "You rhyme as well as this one!" More laughter went about the room and Bruce smirked at them from behind the rim of his goblet. Amidst all the laughter the singer bowed quietly and left, his song ruined by the Lion's shout.

Soon it was full night outside the tall windows, and still more food poured from the kitchens. There were meant to have been seventy seven, though it seemed more like a thousand. One for every guest in the hall. Tyrion drank his way through the last twenty or so as did most people.

Some of the guests were drunk enough to begin providing unintentional entertainments of their own. Grand Maester Pycelle fell asleep while dancers from the Summer Isles swirled and spun in robes made of bright feathers and smoky silk. One of Lord Rowan's knights stabbed a Dornishman. The gold cloaks dragged them both away, one to a cell to rot and the other to get sewn up by a maester.

Amidst it all King Joffrey lurched suddenly to his feet. "Bring on my royal jousters!" he shouted in a voice thick with wine, clapping his hands together. No man has ever been so drunk, Tyrion thought as the gold cloaks opened the great doors at the end of the hall. From where he sat, he could only see the tops of two striped lances as a pair of riders entered side by side. A wave of laughter followed them down the centre aisle toward the king. They must be riding ponies, he concluded... until they came into full view.

The jousters were a pair of dwarfs, riding on broomstick horses. Their shields were bigger than they were, and they wrestled manfully with their lances as they clomped along, swaying this way and that and eliciting gusts of mirth. One knight was all in gold, with a black stag painted on his shield; the other wore grey and white, and bore a wolf.

Tyrion glanced along the dais at all the laughing faces. Joffrey was red and breathless, Tommen was hooting and hopping up and down in his seat, Cersei was chuckling politely, and even Lord Tywin looked to be threatening a smile. Of all those at the high table, only Sansa Stark was not smiling. He could have loved her for that, but if truth be told the Stark girl's eyes were far away, as if she had not even seen the ludicrous riders loping toward her.

When the dwarfs reined up beneath the dais to salute the king, the wolf knight dropped his shield. As he leaned over to grab for it, the stag knight lost control of his heavy lance and slammed him across the back. The wolf knight fell and his lance tumbled over and bonked his foe on the head. They both wound up on the floor in a great tangle. When they rose, both tried to mount the same stick horse. Much shouting and shoving followed. Finally they regained their saddles, only mounted on each other's steed, holding the wrong shield and facing backward.

It took some time to sort that out, but in the end they spurred to opposite ends of the hall, and wheeled about for the tilt. As the lords and ladies guffawed and giggled, the little men came together with a crash and a clatter, and the wolf knight's lance struck the helm of the stag knight and knocked his head clean off. It spun through the air spattering blood to land in the lap of Lord Hightower's. The headless dwarf careened around the tables, flailing his arms. Dogs barked, women shrieked, and Moon Boy made a great show of swaying perilously back and forth on his stilts, until Lord Hightower pulled a dripping red melon out of the shattered helm, at which point the stag knight poked his face up out of his armour, and another storm of laughter rocked the hall.

Twice more they went at it, the hall full to the brim with laughter, until finally the stag knight leapt onto the wolf knight, let down his wooden breeches, and started to pump away frantically at the other's nether portions. "I yield, I yield," the dwarf on the bottom screamed. "Good ser, put up your sword!" An obvious jape, thought Tyrion through his wine. "I would, I would, if you'll stop moving the sheath!" the dwarf on the top replied.

Gasping, Joffreyl urched to his feet, almost knocking over his tall two-handed chalice. "A champion," he shouted. "We have a champion!" The hall began to quiet when it was seen that the king was speaking. The dwarfs untangled, no doubt anticipating the royal thanks. "Not a true champion, though," said Joff. "A true champion defeats all challengers." The king climbed up on the table. "Who else will challenge our tiny champion?"

"Bruce! You'll defend the honour of my realm, won't you?" Tyrion didn't know whether to thank his nephew for not saying his name or hate him more for saying his injured brother. The hall shushed itself immediately and for the second time that day they all waited on his response.

"Will I?" Said the Lion, his face turning to its familiar stone look that had been absent from it these past few months. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I prefer to only fight one battle per day. I would also like to keep what remains of my shoulder." Bruce raised his goblet to his mouth, "I think you should fight them, I'm sure they have a horse big enough to hold your fat head."

Again the hall broke out into both oohing and laughter. Joff scowled, confused. "Me? I'm no dwarf. Why me?" Stepped right into the cut, Joffrey. "Why, you're the only man in the hall that they're certain of defeating!" The laughter crashed over them all like a wave.

Joffrey bit down hard on his lip. "Very well then. If your too craven, Uncle Tyrion." Bugger, I knew it was too good to be true. The Imp sighed and set down his own goblet. "I'm afraid I must agree with your brother, sire. Come now, take up Widow's Wail and show all of us how a bold king like yourself wins the throne."

Joffrey was upon him in an instant, red-faced and staggering, wine slopping over the rim of the great golden wedding chalice he carried in both hands. "Your Grace," was all he had time to say before the king upended the chalice over his head. The wine washed down over his face in a red torrent. It drenched his hair, stung his eyes, burned his scar as it ran down his cheeks, and soaked the velvet of his new doublet. "How do you like that, Imp?" Joffrey mocked.

"A good vintage. A pity the wine spilled." Some light laughter broke out at the jib. "It didn't spill," said Joffrey full of malice. Tyrion caught sight of Bruce's hand wrapping round a knife and feared he would soon be drenched in blood as well as wine.

Queen Margaery appeared suddenly at Joffrey's elbow. "My sweet king," the Tyrell girl entreated, "Come, return to your place. There is new singer and my father wishes to make a toast." Bruce sighed and his grip on the knife slackened as he rose. "Yes, Your Grace. I do so hope he plays us 'The Rains of Castamere.' It has been an hour, I've forgotten how it goes."

Tyrion would not get off so lightly. "I have no wine," Joffrey declared. "How can I drink a toast if I have no wine? Uncle Imp, you can serve me. Since you're too cowardly to fight. And you, cripple, can help him." Bruce's teeth must have been ready to shatter, from how hard they were grinding against one another. "Very well. Come uncle, Joffrey does us both a great honour." Said Lord Tywin's heir, as he hobbled round the table with his cane

Arianne Martell grabbed his arm as he passed but Bruce shook his head continued round the table, his uncle trailing behind him. "It's not meant to be an honour!" Joffrey screamed from the middle of the ground beneath the dais and flung his chalice to the ground in a fit of rage. "Pick it up!" The King barked at his brother, pointing to his good father's gift.

Fists clenched, the wounded Lion went for the chalice but as he moved passed Joffrey, the king struck out a leg which caught on Bruce's cane and injured leg. When her lion fell the ground in a crash, Princess Arianne was on her feet was railed at the King, "Enough, you spoilt twat!" Half the room gasped and the rest had their mouths fall open. The Dornishmen were all on their feet ready to go to the aid of Prince Doran's only daughter.

The King whirled round at this new comer. "What did you say? I'll have your throat out for that!" In a flash of brazen fury, the Crown Prince shot and grabbed his brother's cloak with his good arm holding the King in. "You make a go of her, and I'll make bloody of your wife's cunt!" The back of Joff's hand thrashed over Bruce's face and snatched back the cloak.

"SER MERYN!" Shouted Joffrey, "DEFEND YOUR KING!" Before the white knight could make a go of the Crown Prince, the swords of Ser Jaime, Daven plus Prince Oberyn were drawn and pointed at the man. Before anything could be done by anyone, Tyrion picked up the chalice, had a serving girl fill it for him and waddled over to his eldest nephew. "Your wine, sire." He said presenting Joffrey with the giant gold goblet.

The King looked unsure of the Imp but an unexpected party intervened on the dwarf's behalf. "Your Grace." Lord Tywin's voice was impeccably correct. "They are bringing in the pie. Your sword is needed, and no one else's." The reluctant scraping of steel on steel four times, and Joffrey slurping heavily at his wine signalled an end to crisis.

Tyrion turned to help his fallen nephew, but found both Queen Margaery and Arianne Martell steadying him on his cane and their arms. He thanked them both and quietly hobbled back to his seat with his wife, as the queen met her own husband and the pie below the dais.

Joffrey and Margaery joined hands and the king lifted Widow's Wail high in the air and swung it down in a silvery arc. When the piecrust broke, the doves burst forth in a swirl of white feathers, scattering in every direction, flapping for the windows and the rafters. A roar of delight went up from the benches, and the fiddlers and pipers in the gallery began to play a sprightly tune. Joff took his bride in his arms, and whirled her around merrily.

"More wine!" The king demanded, and as Tyrion was still stood it fell to him still. The king's chalice was on the table where he'd left it. Tyrion waddled away to reach it. Joff yanked it from his hands and drank long and deep, his throat working as the wine ran purple down his chin. "My lord," Margaery said, "we should return to our places. My father's toast."

My uncle hasn't eaten his pigeon pie." Holding the chalice one-handed, Joff jammed his other into Tyrion's pie. "It's ill luck not to eat the pie," he scolded as he filled his mouth with hot spiced pigeon. "See, it's good." Spitting out flakes of crust, he coughed and helped himself to another fistful. "Dry, though. Needs washing down." Joff took a swallow of wine and coughed again, more violently. "I want, kof, I want more, kof, wine, kof, I want…" His words broke up in a fit of coughing.

Margaery looked at him with concern. "Your Grace?" She questioned. "It's, kof, the pie, noth—kof, pie." Joff took another drink, or tried to, but all the wine came spewing back out when another spate of coughing doubled him over. His face was turning red. "I, kof, I can't, kof kof kof kof . . . " The chalice slipped from his hand and dark red wine went running across the dais.

"He's choking," Queen Margaery gasped. All the Kingsguard began to approach the two, unsure. "Help the poor boy!" the Queen of Thorns screeched, in a voice ten times her size. "Idiots! Help your king!" Ser Arys shoved Tyrion aside and began to pound Joffrey on the back. Ser Osmund Kettleblack ripped open the king's collar. A fearful high sound emerged from the boy's throat, and vomit began to spew forth from the boy's nose and mouth as he fell to the ground.

"Turn him over!" Bellowed Lord Tywin from behind the table. Water, give him some water!" Commanded the Crown Prince. Grand Maester Pycelle shouted for someone to help him back to his chambers, to fetch his potions. Joffrey began to claw at his throat, his nails tearing bloody gouges in the flesh. Beneath the skin, the muscles stood out hard as stone. Prince Tommen was screaming and crying.

He is going to die, Tyrion realized. He felt curiously calm, though pandemonium raged all about him. They were pounding Joff on the back again, but his face was only growing darker. Dogs were barking, children were wailing, men were shouting useless advice at each other. Half the wedding guests were on their feet, some shoving at each other for a better view, others rushing for the doors in their haste to get away.

Jaime pried the king's mouth open to look for what was choking him. As he did, the boy's eyes met Tyrion's. He has Jaime's eyes. Only he had never seen Jaime look so scared. The boy's only sixteen. Joffrey was making a dry clacking noise, trying to speak. Dying in his father's arms and he doesn't even know it, at least he would have if Cersei hadn't pushed her twin away.

His eyes bulged white with terror, and he lifted a hand reaching for his uncle, or pointing. Is he begging my forgiveness, or does he think I can save him? "Noooo," Cersei wailed, "Father help him. Someone help him, my son, my son…"

When he heard Cersei's scream, he knew that it was over. I should leave. Now. Instead he waddled toward her. His sister sat in a puddle of wine, cradling her son's body. Her gown was torn and stained, her face white as chalk. "The boy is gone, Cersei," Ser Jaime said. He put his gloved hand on his twins shoulder. "Unhand him now. Let him go." She did not hear. It took two Kingsguard to pry loose her fingers, so the body of King Joffrey Baratheon could slide limp and lifeless to the floor.

"My son was poisoned." She looked to the white knights standing helplessly around her. "Kingsguard, do your duty." Jaime starred at him wide eyed. "My lady?" said Ser Osmund, uncertain. "Arrest my brother," she commanded him. "He did this, the dwarf. Him. He killed my son. Your king. Take him! Take him!"

The last thing Tyrion heard before he was tackled to the ground was the new king bellow his name.