The smile on Lord Tyrell's face was a far worse assault on the senses than the noise that followed his pronouncement; the deafening din; the bedlam pandemonium of scandalised gasps, extravagant intakes of breath, lurid suggestions from the more vulgar courtiers present, and of course, talk: talk that gabbled and shouted and roared from floor to ceiling and wall to wall; amusement and disbelief holding disdainful sway in a place where fury should have reigned.
Jaime leapt forward and seized Arya from behind as she flew from his side like a quarrel launched from a crossbow, drew her dagger and gave every appearance of wanting to attack Mace Tyrell where he stood. His arms fastened tightly around her waist; crushing hers beneath them in case she tried to elbow him in the balls; and when all attempts to free herself failed, she looked angrily up at him, her dagger clutched uselessly in her hand.
'Let me go, Lannister!' Arya exclaimed.
'Wait,' Jaime growled; tightening his grip on her as she tensed up and growled right back at him.
'Let me go –'
'If they allow this insanity to proceed,' Jaime interrupted, trying hard not to meet her anger with anger, as he always did, 'then I'll let you attack him. Agreed?'
'But I want to attack him now!' Arya insisted.
'Good luck,' Jaime shrugged, and did not let her go.
Her two hands twisted beneath his one hand, and the bones in her shoulders and back seemed to crush and carve at his chest. Her body felt twisted and gnarled and frantic against his; and when he bent over and soothingly kissed her hair without giving a fuck what anyone thought about it, he felt her breathing slow, and heighten again as wolf blood pulsed in her veins, and hurt, and anger, and wrongness at the injustice of having her homeland passed about from one person to another as though it were a whore being wagered at dice rather than a thing that thought and breathed: a thing that loved, and murmured, and remembered; and punished its invaders with nothing more than cold; a thing that could not be ruled, not even by its own children.
As the thought occurred to him, Jaime looked up for the first time, and began to search for his brother….and his good-sister.
Sansa was standing in the gallery opposite them, looking as livid as it was possible to be without attempting murder; and Tyrion was sitting straight and rigid beside Tommen, doing a halfway decent job of appearing unmoved. Uncle Kevan was whispering to Varys, Tommen was looking desperately at Tyrion for guidance, and Tyrion was looking desperately back at him, saying nothing.
His hands are tied, Jaime realised, his regard for Sansa is as well known as Littlefinger's was for Lady Catelyn. Any attempt he makes to stop this will look like jealousy and covetousness.
And a strange, unaccountable desire for punishment, from the sound of things.
Two days after Cersei's death, Jaime had had supper with his little brother; and, having spent the duration of the meal watching him wallow in sullen silence and misery, had demanded to know what or who was responsible for this shameless disappearance of Tyrion's sense of humour. Their subsequent conversation, (and a considerable amount of deductive reasoning on Jaime's part, thanks to Tyrion's drunkenness), had led him to surmise that Tyrion's last discussion with Sansa had had the potential to end in a proposal, but had instead turned into a heated exchange over the size and sobriety of his cock that had not been re-entered into since. Tyrion had then cleared his throat, examined the gold filigree on his wine glass with more attention that it deserved, and had tentatively asked what he should do. Jaime had responded 'get down on your knees and beg for mercy,' and had promptly found himself booted out into the corridor. He could not think why.
Jaime looked at Lord Tyrell for the first time in some moments and observed that a smile of some smugness had now taken up permanent residence on the fool's face.
He certainly didn't think of this on his own. It was the old woman, probably – or possibly even Margaery. A rather desperate way of doing things, but clever nonetheless. The Tyrells must know that the Crown would seek to appease them after denying them the Regency…but a seat on the council probably seemed a poor thing in comparison to ruling in all but name. They wanted more power and influence than Tyrion was willing to give them, so they decided to commit the extreme impropriety of proposing a marriage to Sansa in front of the entire court; knowing full well that Tommen would be unable to refuse in front of so many people without giving the impression of some discord existing between Highgarden and the Iron Throne.
Jaime smirked as Tommen signalled for silence. The boy king's face was grim, but unreadable, Arya's heart was beating so quickly that Jaime could feel it in his own chest, and Lord Tyrell was still smiling; delighted by his own cleverness.
It is certainly clever, Jaime thought, but it reeks of desperation nonetheless.
'I am moved by the depth of House Tyrell's loyalty,' Tommen declared smartly, inclining his head, 'and I thank you, Lord Mace, for having chosen such a sweepingly public forum in which to express it. Such earnestness does you credit.'
Lord Tyrell bowed.
'However,' Tommen continued pleasantly, 'had you chosen to approach the question through the usual channels, my lord, you might have spared yourself a great deal of trouble and energy. For the Lady Sansa has these three weeks been promised to my uncle, the Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock. Is that not so, Lady Sansa?'
Tyrion stared at Tommen in disbelief; Uncle Kevan started audibly; Jaime's jaw dropped; Arya whispered 'what the fuck?'; and soon the entire hall was gazing intently and unabashedly at Sansa, who allowed one look of utter confusion to flash across her tomato-red face before regally straightening up and flawlessly giving every impression of Tommen's nothaving made the entire story up.
By now, Tyrion was glaring at Tommen as though he wanted to put him over his knee; Tommen was gazing sweetly and innocently back at him as though nothing in the world was the matter; and Tyrion's gaze was moving swiftly and sharply away from his nephew to where Sansa stood in the gallery, still silent, and still not having answered the question.
Tyrion and Sansa's eyes met, and there was a fleeting silence.
'It is indeed so, Your Grace,' Sansa declared, and she looked down at her feet and up again, glancing at Tyrion and away from him, and when her eyes finally came to rest on him and stayed there, she smiled; smiling brighter when he grinned back at her.
Seven hells, will they get this over with before I throw up on myself? Jaime thought.
'A king must keep his word,' Tommen proclaimed, 'and I must therefore decline your generous offer, Lord Tyrell. But I thank you deeply for making it.'
The din returned to the hall like needles to a magnet. Lord Tyrell turned red with anger, swiftly rejoined the other members of his House, and scowled at the laughs and jeers that dogged his every step. Jaime released his hold on Arya, and smiled when she nestled into the crook of his arm; sheathing her dagger and continuing to glare at the Tyrells. Sansa seemed dazed, as though unsure of what had just happened to her; Tyrion was in a similar state of bewilderment and stupefaction, and when Sansa stepped back from her place and hurriedly left the hall, her mask of courtly composure breaking down with every step she took, Tommen abruptly pinched Tyrion, ignored his yelp of indignation, and declared in a thoroughly childlike voice:
'Don't just sit there, nuncle, go!'
Chapter notes
Please note that the next chapter will be the final one in this story. I'll do my best to make it a good one!
