Bread and Salt, and a traditional Westerosi wedding feast.
Jon
The night enveloped Winterfell in a shroud of darkness, its ancient stones cloaked in shadows as torches flickered, casting dancing patterns on the courtyard below.
The wedding feast for Dickon Tarly and Margaery Tyrell lay ahead, a celebration tinged with both joy and an undercurrent of apprehension. Rumours of potential threats had reached Jon's ears, prompting a cautious approach to the evening's events.
The three guests—Lord Varys, Yara Greyjoy, and Ellaria Sand—had arrived the day before, accompanied by a cautious figure named Dillyn, a seasoned food taster with a discerning palate for poison. Their presence added an air of complexity to the festivities, and Jon's mind weighed the delicate balance between hospitality and vigilance.
Once the wedding was over, the great hall awaited, adorned with rustic elegance. Long wooden tables stretched across the expanse, laden with platters of savoury meats and aromatic dishes. The air hummed with the anticipation of celebration, yet for Jon and Sansa, the shadows that clung to the corners hinted at the underlying tension.
Jon descended to the hall, his steps echoing in the emptiness before the revelry began. The guests, seated with a certain distance between them, exchanged polite nods as Jon approached. Dillyn, the vigilant food taster, stood discreetly at the edge, his watchful eyes betraying the gravity of his role.
Lord and Lady Tarly sat at the head of the table, Jon and Sansa were to be seated to the side, to allow the bride and groom to take centre stage. However, first the overlooked ritual of bread and salt needed to be performed. Most guests had been trusted without such ritual, but the words Lord Varys had whispered the previous night, revealed a possible threat, therefore bread and salt had to be offered.
To ensure the three guests did not feel as though they were the ones being scrutinised, it had been decided all wedding guests should rake part in the guest rite.
"In the spirit of trust and the safety of all present," Jon began, his voice resonating through the hall, "I offer you bread and salt."
With ceremonial precision, he presented the tray to each the first person of each table.
"Bread and salt, a sacred bond that transcends words. May this offering bind us in peace and shield us from harm," Jon intoned, his words carrying the weight of tradition and the unspoken understanding that accompanied the gesture.
As the guests partook in the symbolic exchange, the atmosphere in the hall shifted. A pact, ancient and revered, settled upon Winterfell, a protective cloak woven with the threads of trust.
Once the silver-laden platters had been dutifully retrieved by the swift hands of servants, the initiation of the wedding feast loomed. Samwell Tarly, his voice echoing with a blend of nostalgia and mirth, regaled the assembly with anecdotes from Dickon's childhood, provoking a smattering of laughter that rippled through the hall like a subtle breeze.
Following Sam's recollections, Lady Olenna Tyrell, the venerable matriarch of House Tyrell, took centre stage to extol her granddaughter's virtues. With a keen wit and a hint of subtle mischief, Lady Olenna spun words of celebration. The hall erupted in shouts of cheers, goblets clashing together in a cacophony of jubilation for the newly united couple.
Before the culinary bounty graced the tables, the solemn ritual of gift-giving unfolded. Tokens of goodwill were proffered to the freshly minted Lord and Lady Tarly. Among the offerings were volumes of knowledge, a sword forged with care for Dickon, and a delicately crafted dagger for Margaery, a testament to her burgeoning martial pursuits under the tutelage of her new husband.
The trove expanded to include garments of opulence, intricate embroidery that spoke of craftsmanship, and sumptuous fabrics that caressed the senses. A winter rose bush, a symbol of enduring love and resilience, found its place among the treasures, a thoughtful offering from Jon and Sansa, the rulers of Winterfell.
In the grand tapestry of wedding gifts, these offerings might have paled in comparison to the lavish spoils Margaery once amassed during her union with Joffrey. However, within the confines of this more intimate celebration, they bore a weight of sincerity and appreciation.
As the feast unfolded, the newlyweds basked in the warmth of camaraderie, surrounded by the echoes of revelry and the lingering scent of spices. Winterfell's great hall bore witness to this modest yet heartfelt celebration, where the essence of generosity transcended material grandeur, and the bonds of kinship were woven anew in the tapestry of House Tarly.
As the ceremonious exchange of gifts drew to a close, the grand spectacle of the feast unfurled. The inaugural course, a pigeon pie, graced the tables—its presence a customary fixture in the tapestry of wedding celebrations. The hall, filled with eager guests, hushed as the newlyweds, Dickon and Margaery, took centre stage.
A moment pregnant with anticipation ensued as Dickon poised his blade over the pigeon-adorned pie. With a deft stroke, the crust was breached, and to the delight of the onlookers, a pigeon took flight, prompting cheers that reverberated through the hall. The true essence of the culinary creation lay hidden beneath the superficial guise, a revelation that elicited both surprise and amusement.
Amidst the jubilation, Dickon, wearing a smile befitting a groom, presented a morsel to Margaery, a symbolic gesture of shared sustenance and unity. The couple partook in the delicacy, and the communal cheer swelled as the pie's true contents were unveiled.
The subsequent six courses, crafted from Lady Olenna's culinary expertise, proved to be a triumph. Each dish unfolded like a carefully orchestrated symphony, a testament to the culinary prowess of House Tyrell. However, for Jon Snow, the lord of Winterfell, the spices interwoven within some courses stirred a mild discomfort. Accustomed to plainer fare, he navigated the complex flavours with a discerning palate.
At the periphery of this feast, the vigilant Dillyn, the seasoned food taster, undertook a ritual of caution. His practiced senses sniffed each course before sampling a minute bite, ensuring that the plates destined for Jon and Sansa bore no hidden threats. Although Jon bore little concern for his own welfare, a silent gratitude lingered for the protective presence of the food taster, shielding Sansa from the unseen perils that lurked within the feast.
Amidst the conviviality, a spectre of suspicion loomed. Ellaria, with her potential grievances against Jon, cast a shadow of doubt over the festivities. In this intricate dance of celebration and trepidation, a reminder that beneath the veneer of revelry, the history between the Martells and the Starks, caused by Jon's own parents, was, at best, questionable.
The undercurrents of Winterfell's feast were as treacherous as the icy winds that swept through its ancient halls. Ellaria's potential malevolent designs on Jon were but one shadow in the tapestry of tension, albeit an ominous one.
Amidst the revelry, a palpable animosity crackled between Jaime Lannister and the Dornish widow. Their glances, laden with the weight of shared history and bitter grievances, painted a portrait of a simmering feud that threatened to combust at any moment.
Jon, ever watchful, leaned toward Sansa, his gaze flickering toward the turbulent dynamic unfolding between Jaime and Ellaria. "If she bears no vendetta against me, I wager she won't see the week through."
Sansa, her keen intellect attuned to the currents of political intrigue, nodded in silent agreement. "Jaime is poised to be a problem, Jon."
A sip of Dornish red, a rare vintage gracing Jon's lips, punctuated the gravity of the conversation. The crimson liquid, a delicacy seldom tasted, swirled in his goblet like the currents of the unpredictable game that governed the realm.
"Can you blame him?" Jon mused, his voice a murmur amidst the revelry. "She slew his daughter, an innocent soul whose only transgression was her lineage and the ties she bore to Prince Oberyn."
The echoes of injustice reverberated through the hall, a reminder that the wounds inflicted by Ellaria's vengeance transcended mere personal grievances.
Amidst the fragrant arrival of lemon cakes, a delicate whisper of caution threaded through the air, voiced by Sansa in hushed tones that cut through the ambient revelry. "Which is the reason you must be vigilant," she cautioned Jon, her words a subtle reminder of the shadows lurking amidst celebration.
As the lemon cakes were produced, Sansa's delight was palpable. "Ooh," she exclaimed, turning to Lady Olenna. "You remembered."
"Of course I did, my dear, sorry, your grace, how could I forget?" Lady Olenna replied with a wry smile, the weight of years of political manoeuvring etched in the lines of her face. "I had the lemons shipped in, just for you."
A sudden thud disrupted the festivities, a jarring note in the symphony of merriment. Jon and Sansa turned with shared concern to witness Dillyn sprawled on the floor, an unconscious figure cradling a lemon cake in his hand.
A grave urgency gripped Jon as he rose from his seat. "Nobody touch the lemon cakes," he commanded, his voice cutting through the rising murmur of the hall. With Sansa at his side, they hastened toward the fallen youth, uncertainty and worry etched on their faces.
"Where is Maester Wolkan?" Sansa's cry echoed through the hall, drawing the attention of the stooped figure of the Maester shuffling across the room. In the span of moments, the joyous atmosphere had transformed into a tableau of suspense, where the delicate balance of revelry and peril hung in the air over the guests of Winterfell.
A hushed pall descended upon the Great Hall, the vibrant echoes of celebration muted by the grave turn of events. All eyes fixated on the Maester, his every movement scrutinized as he examined the unconscious youth sprawled on the floor. "We need to get him to a bed," the Maester declared, his words punctuating the silence with a sense of urgency. Amidst the charged atmosphere, Lord Varys approached, his countenance etched with genuine concern. Sansa, a regal figure of authority, nodded toward a distant point across the room, a silent directive. Responding to the unspoken cue, the Hound, a looming presence with scars that told tales of a brutal past, rose from his seat and traversed the Great Hall toward them. "Where do you want him?" the Hound inquired, a gruff timbre underscoring the sincerity of his question. "He is staying in the chambers next to mine," Lord Varys replied, but the Hound met him with an inscrutable gaze. "Follow me," Varys commanded, leading the way through the hushed hall. The Hound, unfazed by the weight of the unconscious youth in his arms, hoisted Dillyn's limp form and followed in tow. The procession, a sombre dance through the heart of Winterfell, unfolded with an air of disquiet, the promise of revelry shattered by the sudden intrusion of uncertainty. As they navigated the labyrinthine corridors, the spectre of danger lingered, casting an ominous shadow over the once-festive atmosphere. Winterfell, a bastion of both celebration and clandestine threats, bore witness to the delicate dance between life and the ever-present spectre of peril.
Varys led the solemn procession through Winterfell's winding corridors, the Hound bearing the unconscious youth in his burly arms. Maester Wolkan and Sansa followed closely, a tableau of concern etched on their faces as they traversed the shadows that clung to the castle's stone walls.
"I'll be with you in a moment," Jon informed Sansa as she departed, his gaze lingering on the doorway through which the procession disappeared. The air hung heavy with a disquiet that mirrored the chill of the North itself.
Once beyond the earshot of the concerned guests, Jon faced those who remained. "It looks like dessert is off the table tonight," he declared, his voice carrying a weight of responsibility. "Instead, it is time for music, dance, and revelries. Sansa and I will find out what is wrong with the food taster, then we will return to join in with the music and dancing."
As the Great Hall emptied, Jon leaned toward Dickon and Margaery, his words a quiet reassurance. "We'll find out what is going on. Hopefully, it is just a mild poison, and the lad recovers." The uncertainty that had cast its shadow over the feast now hung thick in the air. A reminder that Winterfell, for all its grandeur and history, was not impervious to the whispers of treachery that threaded throughout Westerosi politics.
Jon, armed with the knowledge of Dillyn's chambers from a morning visit, swung the door open, expecting to find the food taster on the mend. Instead, a harsh reality awaited him—a tableau of suffering. The lad appeared even more wretched than before, the pallor of illness clinging to his unconscious form, beads of sweat betraying the laborious effort of each breath.
"What do you think it is, Maester Wolkan?" Jon inquired, his voice a mixture of concern and anticipation.
Sansa, holding up the half-eaten lemon cake, interjected with a voice laden with dismay. "He thinks it is sweetsleep," she uttered, her countenance ashen with realization.
Jon, his senses engaged, sniffed at the lemon cake in search of telltale signs. "I can't smell anything," he remarked, a perplexed shrug punctuating his admission.
"I'm quite familiar with sweetsleep. Lord Baelish used to use it to help control Lord Arryn's seizures. It is very sweet, and I'm afraid it would have been undetectable in something like a lemon cake."
Maester Wolkan, the harbinger of grim tidings, pivoted to face them with a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid his heart is beating too slowly. I believe he has had quite a high dosage. It is unlikely he will see the night out."
Sansa, grappling with the inevitability of tragedy, sought a glimmer of hope. "Is there nothing you can do?" she implored, her eyes searching the Maester's for a shred of solace.
The Maester, however, delivered a sombre verdict. "I'm afraid not, your grace. There is no antidote for sweetsleep. Have heart, it is a painless and kind death." The cruel reality hung in the air, casting a pall over the chamber—a reminder that even within the fortified walls of Winterfell, the capricious hand of fate could weave threads of tragedy.
In the chamber touched by the spectre of impending tragedy, Varys, his eyes bearing the weight of guilt, broke the heavy silence. "It is my fault," he confessed, tears glistening in his eyes. "I brought him here. I thought he might be safer here than in Cersei's court." His head shook with a mix of regret and disbelief. "My little birds told me of Qyburn's tests on the young lad, trying him with every poison. He could sniff them all out, or so I thought." A dramatic sigh punctuated the weight of his admission. The question lingered in the air, a desperate plea for understanding. "How could this happen?" Jon queried, his gaze locked on Varys, seeking answers. "Anyone with a knowledge of poisons could have done it," Varys offered, his tone laden with a mix of sorrow and frustration. "When were the cakes baked?" Sansa, the mistress of Winterfell, took charge of the investigation. "I shall need to speak to the cook. They were cold, so they must have been out at least an hour." Jon, his mind racing with the implications, suggested a timeline. "During the wedding. How would they know it is our tray of food?" Sansa, ever astute, revealed the nuance that set their tray apart. "The wedding guests all eat from pewter trays; we eat from silver. The gold tray is for the bride and groom." Varys, ostensibly overcome with grief, raised a handkerchief to his nose, an act that seemed more a performance than a genuine expression of sorrow. Jon, ever sceptical of the Spider's motives, observed the display with a measure of suspicion. The realization unfolded like a dark tapestry—the poisoner had aimed for one or both of their graces, a sinister plot woven within the celebratory fabric of the wedding feast. The air in the chamber hung thick with a sinister tension. The rulers of Winterfell grappled not only with the tragedy at hand but also with the shadows of conspiracy that now tainted the very air they breathed.
Maester Wolkan rose from his sombre vigil. "I'm afraid there is very little I can do for him."
Varys, his eyes reflecting a deep sense of responsibility, pledged to remain by Dillyn's side until the end. "He was one of mine, and I knew him quite well. I shall inform you of his passing. You should return to the feast. It wouldn't do for Lord and Lady Tarly to be kept waiting."
"Thank you, Lord Varys," Sansa expressed her gratitude, a genuine note in her voice as she and Jon prepared to depart. A sudden knock interrupted their solemn exit, and Sansa, opening the door, was met by Pod, his face flushed and breathless. "What is it?" Sansa inquired, her gaze penetrating.
"In the great hall, your grace. Lord Jaime and Lady Ellaria, they are having an argument. He is threatening to kill her," Pod relayed, the urgency in his words hanging in the air like an ominous echo.
Jon, his shoulders sagging in exasperation, muttered, "Seven hells, I knew we shouldn't have left them alone for five minutes."
"You hurry along, your graces," Lord Varys suggested, his voice tinged with a sense of knowing. Jon and Sansa, their acknowledgment unspoken, set off for the great hall, leaving the chamber of sorrow behind.
Upon their arrival at the great hall, Jon and Sansa were met with a chaotic tableau that transcended the boundaries of civil discourse. What commenced, was a quarrel between Jaime and Ellaria had metastasised into a full-fledged brawl, spurred on by the unrestrained fervour of Yara Greyjoy, who had aligned herself with Ellaria's cause.
Dickon and Margaery, the unfortunate witnesses to this unfolding spectacle, stood in horrified silence. Their wedding feast, intended as a joyous celebration, now lay in ruins—an unsettling familiarity for Lady Margaery, having weathered the storm of chaos during her previous marriage to Joffrey.
Surveying the tumultuous scene, Jon's gaze sought a particular presence in the room, finding it in the form of Ghost, the direwolf, coiled in front of the roaring hearth. With a glance, Ghost acknowledged his master, padding over with a silent assurance. Jon, taking his place on the dais, stood tall with Ghost at his side, the direwolf's stance radiating an air of readiness, a silent threat poised to pounce.
Amidst the chaos, Jon's voice boomed, cutting through the disarray with a commanding force. "Stop this madness, IMMEDIATELY!" he roared, the hall falling silent as all eyes turned to the Lord of Winterfell. "Now pray, what in the seven hells is going on?" Jon's inquiry hung in the air, a challenge demanding an account for the unravelling chaos in front of him.