Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.
Chapter 42: Mummer's Farce
"We save the best lies for ourselves."
– Prince Suko Lóng
He threw back the coverlets and woke to the smell of morning bread from the ovens – luring him up from his silken sheets; back to the waking world – where the reality of things struck him like a horse's hind legs to his skull. The city reeked of piss and shit that no bread could ever hope to combat for long. Suko muttered curses in Imperial.
Throwing back the shutters, he shivered from the cold; so far from the Dawn sun. There were clouds massing in the sky, pierced by shafts of sunlight. They looked like two huge castles afloat in the morning sky. Suko could see their walls of tumbled stone, their mighty keeps and barbicans. Wispy banners swirled from atop their towers reaching for the fast-fading stars. The sun was coming up behind them, and he watched them go from black to grey to a thousand shades of rose and gold and crimson.
Soon the wind mushed them together, and now there was only one castle where there had been two.
He heard the door open as some maids brought the hot water for his bath. They were unknown to him; spies for the lions no doubt.
"Come see fair ladies," he smiled at them warmly. "There's a castle in the sky..."
They ignored him, heads bowed, afraid to look his way. Suko frowned as he couldn't blame them for it.
He closed the shutters and said, "I'm expected at the Queen's breakfast, do hurry up little lions…"
"Yes, m'lord," said one of them. "It's ready for you…"
"I'll be along soon," Suko didn't spare them a glance as he climbed into the big wooden tub. "And fetch me some wine, would you!?"
They wouldn't bring him wine, he knew; but the thought didn't hurt. One supposed there would be wine aplenty at the wedding come midday in the andals Great Sept of Baelor across the city. And come evenfall the feast would be held in the throne room; a thousand guests and seventy-seven courses, with singers and jugglers and mummers. But first came breakfast in the Queen's Ballroom, for the Lannisters and the Tyrell's would be breaking their fast with a hundred odd lordlings.
It was a damn tiring business, playing the mummer from the moment he'd woken in bed days past. His was a web of words spun for fools in gold and red.
They'd left him to wash by his lonesome, his servant-spies. It was a far cry from being waited on hand and foot back home… though Suko didn't care so much…
"Waters barely hot," he muttered another Imperial curse for no one to hear.
That was a damn handy trick. Wasn't a soul among his new hosts that spoke a word of Imperial. It served to piss off those listening, he hoped.
"King Joffrey can go FUCK himself!" He yelled out to his heart's content in his mother tongue, all smirks when the guards rushed in to see.
They were redcloaks – Lannister men – four of them rushed into the room at his outburst with swords drawn and angry looking faces.
"Water's hot," Suko lied with a smile, in common old andal now, looking innocent as a maiden as he waved them away.
"Bloody dornishman," one the redcloak's spat at the floor as they turned tail and left his room.
From extensive testing – much to those men's annoyance – it had become apparent that they had orders to keep a Very close eye on him.
"Idiots," Suko cursed them in his mother tongue once more, sighing as he moved a hand to his once pristine princely face.
The bandages peeled away with ease; a far cry easier than they'd done only days before. The wound had since ceased its puss and nastiness days past.
Unwrapping it from over his left eye, he found the cloth fairly free of crimson – though not entirely – one splash of lukewarm water felt soothing on the scar where his left eye had once been, now a ruin of a thing. It was a mockery. Suko had sworn many a silent vow to have the head of the supposed Grand Maester responsible.
A pit of bile had brewed in his heart since the moment he woke without sight in that eye. He'd have his vengeance, come the dawn…
"Sooner or later, I swear by the dawn," he kept his tongue in Imperial, for these walls had ears. "I'll take all their eyes for this…"
He'd pluck out those pretty emeralds orbs and make bloody jewellery of them by the end of things.
What? He'd had a lot of time to think about how he'd do it while bullshitting his way around. They deserved worse.
There were fresh bandages on his bedside that he quickly wrapped around his scar – making a note to find some more practical way of covering it up.
Today was the three hundredth year since Aegon's Conquest and Prince Suko Lóng was almost enjoying his mummers farse. It reminded him so fondly of home.
In the Queen's Ballroom they broke their fast on honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, gammon steaks, bacon, fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs, autumn pears, and a Dornish dish of onions, cheese, and chopped eggs cooked up with fiery peppers. "Nothing like a hearty breakfast to whet one's appetite for the seventy-seven-course feast to follow," Tyrion Lannister commented as their plates filled. There were flagons of milk and flagons of mead and flagons of a light sweet golden wine to wash it down.
"Seventy-seven," Suko looked over the table to the dwarf with a polite smile. "How very impressive, Lord Tyrion."
"Isn't it just," the Dwarf didn't trust him in the slightest and he was right not to as musicians strolled among the tables, piping and fluting and fiddling, while Ser Dontos the fool galloped about on his broomstick horse and the Moon Boy fool made farting sounds with his cheeks and sang rude songs about the guests.
While the dwarf barely touched his food, Suko had greedily helped himself; sparing sickeningly sweet looks to Queen Cersei – who smiled kindly back at him.
King Joffrey was present, the boy king paying his guests no mind at all. When the food had been cleared away, the queen solemnly presented the boy king with the wife's cloak that he would drape over Margaery Tyrell's shoulders. "It is the cloak I donned when Robert took me for his queen, the same cloak my mother Lady Joanna wore when wed to my lord father." Suko thought it looked threadbare, if truth be told, but perhaps because it was so used…
"It looks like a bloody rag," he opted to say about, uncaring as he took a sip of wine from his gilded cup.
"Such a lovely language," the Queen's smile never faded, all honey and sweetness mixed with falsehood. "What is it you said, Prince Suko?"
"My mother's tongue is a language of poets, dear Queen; I spoke of the cloaks great finery."
"No doubt about it," Tyrion snickered some laughter at his siters expense.
"And what would a dwarf know of beauty, dear brother?"
Whatever doubts the woman might've had, they'd been crushed by her eagerness to hate the dwarf.
"Oh, how right you are sweet sister," the dwarf was a mummer of his own. It took a practiced liar to see the failings of those with less practice…
Then it was time for gifts soon enough. It was apparently traditional in the Reach to give presents to bride and groom on the morning of their wedding; on the morrow they would receive more presents as a couple, but today's tokens were for their separate persons. Suko had a gift too, so great was his love for the young king…
Jalabhar Xho presented his own gift – a man who Suko had base his whole damn deception on – for he too was a foreign Prince so very far from home.
Xho's gift was a great bow of golden wood and a quiver of long arrows fletched with green and scarlet feathers; from Lady Tanda a pair of supple riding boots; from Ser Jaime a magnificent red leather jousting saddle; a red gold brooch wrought in the shape of a scorpion from the Dornishman, Prince Oberyn; silver spurs from Ser Addam Marbrand; a red silk tourney pavilion from Lord Mathis Rowan. Lord Paxter Redwyne brought forth a beautiful wooden model of the war galley of two hundred oars being built even now on the Arbor. "If it please Your Grace, she will be called King Joffrey's Valor," he said, and Joffrey allowed that. The little shit was very pleased indeed.
"I will make it my flagship when I sail to Dragonstone to deal with my traitor cousin," the boy king declared happily, thrilled at the notion of becoming a kinslayer.
He played at the gracious king. Joffrey could be gallant when it suited him, Suko found, but it was a poorly crafted mask born of inexperience. Indeed, all his courtesy vanished at once when Lord Tyrion presented him with his own gift: a huge old book called Lives of Four Kings, bound in leather and gorgeously illuminated.
The king leafed through it with no interest. "And what is this, Uncle?"
A book. Suko wasn't above admitting there was a certain worth to books, but doubtless; the boy wouldn't appreciate that.
"Grand Maester Kaeth's history of the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good," Tyrion answered.
"More fire for the kindling that'll be your pyres," Suko scoffed in his own tongue, pouring more wine. He ignored the confused look he'd earned from the guests.
"My father had no time for books." Joffrey shoved the tome across the table. "If you read less, Uncle Imp, perhaps you'd have grown taller." He laughed… and when the king laughs, the court laughs with him. Suko watched the dwarf with interest, though sadly he filled his mouth with wine instead of heated words.
There was a burning hate behind those mismatched eyes, Suko could see a look he'd come to know well. Beware the fury of a patient man, the saying went.
Lord Mace Tyrell came forward to present his gift then: a golden chalice, with two ornate curved handles and seven faces. "Seven faces for Your Grace's seven kingdoms," the bride's father explained. Each face bore the sigil of one great houses: ruby lion, emerald rose, onyx stag, silver trout, blue jade falcon, opal sun, and pearl direwolf.
"A splendid cup," said Joffrey, "but we'll need to chip the wolf off and put something else in its place, I think..."
Suko muttered in imperial between his gulps of mine. It was a fine thing, being free to speak so openly without a care.
"Margaery and I shall drink deep at the feast, good father." Joffrey lifted the chalice above his head, for everyone to admire.
"The damned thing's as tall as I am," Tyrion muttered in a low voice. "Half a chalice and Joff will be falling down drunk."
"Excellent," Suko declared with a shit-eating smirk. "Perhaps he'll fall and break his little neck!"
"Whatever he said," Tyrion mumbled agreement without knowing what in the seven hells the man said; though he guessed it was nothing good.
Lord Tywin waited until last to present the king with his own gift: a longsword. Its scabbard was made of cherrywood, gold, and oiled red leather, studded with golden lions' heads. The ballroom fell silent as Joffrey unsheathed the blade and thrust the sword above his head. Cherry-red steel, with a great square-cut ruby set in the blade's hilt.
It shimmered in the morning light, but it didn't glow like the stories claimed.
"Magnificent," declared Mathis Rowan.
"A sword to sing of, sire," said Lord Redwyne.
"A sword for the true king," said some nameless Lannister cousin that Suko didn't care to know.
King Joffrey looked as if he wanted to kill someone right then and there, he was so excited. He slashed at the air and laughed.
"Lightbringer," Lord Tywin uttered its name without any attempt to hide his distain. "Your uncle Stannis called it that, sire…"
Joffrey scoffed at the notion, his excitement fading some. This was the magic sword?
"It doesn't glow," he frowned deeply at his grandfather. "I was told it glowed…"
"Fancy stories forged by fools Your Grace," Tywin told him stoically. "Your uncle lied…"
"Traitors do that," Joffrey hummed, swinging the blade in a clumsy arc. He smiled at the thought of taking from his traitorous uncle.
The tales spoke of shimmering reds, yellows and blazing white; but it was nothing but cherry steel…. quite beautiful, but not magical…
"My Uncle was a liar and a traitor," the Boy-King declared loudly. "This blade needs a new name! A truer name! What say you, my lords!?"
Suko remembered the boy had another sword once – Lion's Tooth – before it was lost to him. This 'Lightbringer' was meant to further discredit the boy's uncle.
The guests were shouting out names for the blade. Joffrey dismissed a dozen before he heard one he liked. "Widow's Wail!" he cried. "Yes! It shall make many a widow, too!" He slashed again. "Would that I'd faced the traitor Stannis, to cut him down with his own sword!" Joffrey tried a downcut and nearly stumbled.
"Have a care, Your Grace," Ser Addam Marbrand warned the king. "It may not be magic, but forged steel is perilously sharp..."
"I know that!" Joffrey brought Widow's Wail down in a savage twohanded slice, onto the book that Tyrion had given him. The heavy leather cover parted at a stroke. "Sharp! I told you, I am no stranger to steel!" It took him half a dozen further cuts to hack the thick tome apart, and the boy was breathless by the time he was done.
Suko could see Lord Tyrion struggling with his fury as Ser Osmund Kettleblack shouted, "I pray you never turn that wicked edge on me, sire."
"See that you never give me cause, ser." Joffrey flicked a chunk of Lives of Four Kings off the table at swordpoint, then slid Widow's Wail back into its scabbard.
"Your Grace," Ser Garlan Tyrell said. "Perhaps you did not know. In all of Westeros there were but four copies of that book illuminated in Kaeth's own hand..."
"Now there are three." Joffrey undid his old swordbelt to don his new one. "You owe me a better present, Uncle Imp. This one is all chopped to pieces."
Tyrion was staring at his nephew with his mismatched eyes. There was a fire behind those orbs of his.
"Perhaps a knife, sire. To match your sword. A dagger of the same fine red steel, say?"
Joffrey gave him a sharp look. "You… yes, a dagger to match my sword, good." He nodded. "A gold hilt… with rubies in it..."
"As you wish, Your Grace. " Tyrion drank another cup of wine.
"A glorious thought Your Grace!" Suko placed his cup down and got to his feet, the eyes of all on him suddenly.
The redcloak guards eyed him warily, his constant shadows; untrusting and under orders to gut him at the slightest attempted escape no doubt.
"I would be remiss to call it a mere dagger," Suko held in his hand some wrapped crimson silk. "It has no liars magic to it neither I fear, yet every great knight-to-be requires a shortblade at his side however; this much if known by my people – and by the great knights of this very realm – is it not!?"
There was some nods and mutterings of agreement from the nobles present at that.
"It's my honor to present my gift to his Grace, if you are interested sire?"
"Y- Yes," Joffrey cleared his throat, his interest peaked by the strange Prince. "I accept, of course!"
"You honor me," Suko smiled kindly at the bastard king while thoughts of strangling him danced in his head.
Unravelling the silk, he revealed a short fine blade barely twelve inches in length.
"She is short," Suko said as the crowed snickered at the size. "Yet she is sharp as Valyrian Steel! Forged from the remnants of my own blade; that felled the great Mountain himself, my good lords, as fearsome a warrior as any man here could've known! The very same man who took my eye!"
The crowd gasped in surprise at the tale, while Tywin Lannister's eyes burnt a hole in the back of Suko's head.
"The mountain's steel was thicker than any knight's plate, I assure you all! My steel was sharp however!"
"And shattered," some Lannister fool shouted at him from the gathering of nobles.
"From the arch of his great beastly greatsword Ser – but that foul blade was too ugly a steel to gift His Grace, I'm sure you agree!"
The Lannister cousin had the decency to blubber and stumble over his words as the others laughter turned on him.
"Imperial Steel from the far eastern shores Your Grace," Suko bowed and present the small blade to Joffrey.
"It's small," the boy king muttered with a frown at the size of the thing.
"A fine partner to your Widow's Wail," Suko assured him with a smile that didn't falter. "My people call it a Tamizashi – named for the once Emperors of Dawn; a thin yet unnaturally sharp edge reserved only for the Emperor's kin no less. She is beautiful, is she not, sire?"
Joffrey held the steel in his hand and moved to touch the edge, doubting the foreign Prince's words.
"Argh," his hand jolted backward as the tip of his finger bled and several Kingsguard blades unsheathed.
"Sharp as Valyrian Steel," Suko didn't so much as flinch at the swords behind him.
"Indeed," Joffrey began to smile chillingly as ideas ran through his mind.
It took a mere wave of the boy-kings hand to dismiss the Kingsguard from action.
"A beautiful gift Prince Lóng," King Joffrey told him happily. "The Crown thanks you for it…"
"Most of what I said was nonsense, boy," Suko's grin grew tenfold at his own words. It was a challenge to not laugh.
"What was that?" Joffrey's eyebrow raised in question of those strange unknown words.
"A saying among the Emperor's blood sire," Suko lied as easily as he breathed. "As best I can translate, it means: May your rule echo through eternity…"
"My thanks Prince Lóng," Joffrey seemed to like the idea of that.
It was nonsense of course, made up on the spot for his own amusement.
"Sometimes my lies impress the hell out of me," Suko thought as he struggled to not burst out laughing.
As he left to cross the yard, Prince Oberyn of Dorne fell in beside him, with a black-haired paramour on his arm.
"I once had the great good fortune to see the Citadel's copy of Lives of Four Kings," Prince Oberyn starting spewing words. "The illuminations were wondrous to behold, but Kaeth was too kind by half to King Viserys. The fool hardly reigned for a fortnight, poisoned his own nephew to gain the throne then did nothing once he had it…"
"He sounds like a charming man," Suko replied to the snake. "I confess, my own knowledge on Westeros is sadly limited…"
"Oh?" Prince Oberyn smirked at that, as if he'd won something.
"Quite so," Suko's smile never faded, even with the redcloaks lingering. He wasn't allowed to go anywhere without his shadows.
"You seemed so well informed of our – how was it you phrased it – great knights of our realm?"
"A fascinating subject to be sure," Suko halted in his footsteps. He felt hunted, all of a sudden…
It was an old feeling, to feel as if prey. A feeling he'd not felt since he last spoke to his brothers.
"Well then," Suko made to leave. "My friends in red are growing impatient. If you'd excuse me Prin-"
Oberyn placed a hand very firmly on his shoulder. "Let them, I care not…"
The redcloaks shifted uncomfortably behind them.
"Lions are prickly creatures, Prince…"
"A viper is no less likely to kill you, Prince," the Martell replied with a venomous stare.
"My father prefers his pythons to vipers," Suko said plainly, eyeing the man's features. To read any man – no matter his nature – the clues were in his eyes more oft than not. Oberyn's were onyx black, viper's eyes, sharp and determined beyond reason. These were dangerous eyes for a dangerous man, he knew that at a mere glance.
"I'm more interested in Mountains," the Prince told him without flinching.
"A queer taste in men," Suko didn't flitch either, holding fast to his friendly smirk.
"You killed him," Oberyn stated plainly. Not one for tact it seemed, this viper…
"It cost me an eye," Suko admitted, grasping that lies wouldn't work on vipers without getting bit. "I can't take all the credit though…"
"Who can then," Oberyn pushed further. The redcloaks were growing uneasy at the sight before them, hands itching close to their swords.
"My companion," Suko admitted easily. "Prince Willam Stark of Winterhold. He dealt the blow, alongside his wolf, saved my life in fact…"
Prince Oberyn's eyes didn't once blink. A viper coiled and ready to strike if he so much as made a sudden movement out of line.
"Boy," he turned to his side. Only then did Suko notice the young man by the viper's side; with pale blond hair, and dark blue eyes that appeared almost purple.
"As he says My Prince," Edric Dayne muttered, his head hung with a forlorn look. "The direwolf too… and the bear; but they were slain…"
The boy's knight was dead, Suko knew. Lord Beric had heroically refused to bend and paid the price with his life.
"Seems you're speaking true Prince Sucko," Oberyn smirked, removing his hand from the man.
"It's Suko," came the correction with a raised brow.
"That's what I said," Oberyn smiled at him teasingly. "Sucko."
Don't take the bait. Don't take the bait. Don't take the-
"As you say Prince Martill," he couldn't quite help himself.
Oberyns eye twitched, a moment passing before he let out a bark of laughter.
"Where is this Stark," he moved closer to ask, eyeing the redcloaks. "I'd have words with him…"
"In the Black Cells," Suko genuinely frowned at that, one of the few truths he'd spoken of late. "Not for long I hope, however…"
"Oh?" Oberyn clearly doubted, his eyes wandering off to the side as he eyed Tyrion Lannister passing them by.
"He'd be glad for the visit," Suko implied something and trusted the viper would fill in the gaps.
"Aren't all men glad to see me?"
Martell's paramour smirked something fierce at that.
"Until next time, Prince Oberyn?"
"Quite so," Martell's onyx eyes glinted with mischief. "Until then, Prince Sucko…"
Suko's one good eye twitched at that, watching as the dornishman went off in the direction where Tyrion Lannister had ventured.
The High Septon's new crown stood twice as tall as the last, a glory of crystal and spun gold. Rainbow light flashed and shimmered every time the man moved his head, but Suko had to wonder how the man could bear the weight. Joffrey and Margaery stood side-by-side between the towering gilded statues of the Father and the Mother.
The bride was lovely in ivory silk and Myrish lace, her skirts decorated with floral patterns picked out in seed pearls. As Renly's widow, she might have worn the Baratheon colours, gold and black, yet she came to them a Tyrell, in a maiden's cloak made of a hundred cloth-of-gold roses sewn to green velvet.
He wondered if the girl was really a maiden. Not that King Joffrey is like to know the difference, one supposed…
The king looked near as splendid as his bride, in his doublet of dusky rose, beneath a cloak of deep crimson velvet blazoned with his stag and lion. The crown rested easily on his curls, gold on gold. he seven vows were made, the seven blessings invoked, and the seven promises exchanged. When the wedding song had been sung and the challenge had gone unanswered, it was time for the exchange of cloaks. It was grand, Suko could admit, though there was too much gold and red for his taste.
Mace Tyrell removed his daughter's maiden cloak tenderly, while Joffrey accepted the folded bride's cloak from his brother Tommen and shook it out with a flourish. The boy king was as tall at thirteen as his bride was at sixteen; draping Margaery in the crimson-and-gold and leaned close to fasten it at her throat. She passed from her father's protection to her husband's. But who will protect her from Joffrey? Suko eyed the Kingsguard and found them less than impressive…
The Knight of Flowers stood with the other Kingsguard, perhaps the only man among the white cloaks with any damn skill besides Jaime Lannister.
"With this kiss I pledge my love!" Joffrey declared in ringing tones. Margaery echoed the words then he pulled her close, kissing her long and deep. Rainbow lights danced once more about the High Septon's crown as he declared Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister and Margaery of House Tyrell to be one flesh, one heart, one soul.
The wedding was done – thank the dawn – Suko could easily admit he was no fan of these things; with too many faces, most of whom he didn't know. It was a different kind of uncomfortable to the court back home. Nobody here knew him, and that made things far easier, but he didn't know them either. That made things more dangerous….
Ser Loras Tyrell led the procession from the sept in his white scale armour and snowy cloak. Then came Prince Tommen, scattering rose petals from a basket before the king and queen. After the royal couple followed Queen Cersei and Lord Tyrell, then the bride's mother arm-in-arm with Lord Tywin. The Queen of Thorns tottered after them, her twin guardsmen close behind her. Next came Ser Garlan Tyrell and his lady wife, and Lord Tyrion came after them at the rear of it all.
They were cheering outside even before they reached the doors. The mob loved Margaery so much they were even willing to love Joffrey again. She had belonged to Renly, the handsome young prince who had loved them so well he had come back from beyond the grave to save them. And the bounty of Highgarden had come with her, flowing up the roseroad from the south. The fools didn't seem to remember that it had been Mace Tyrell who closed the roseroad to begin with and made the bloody famine.
Suko stepped out into the crisp autumn air and took a breath of what passed for fresh air in King's Landing. He watched the royal couple with fading interest.
Joffrey and Margaery stood surrounded by Kingsguard atop the steps that fronted on the broad marble plaza. Ser Addam and his gold cloaks held back the crowd, while the statue of King Baelor the Blessed gazed down on them benevolently. Then came the congratulations from the family, then the lords, then the knights.
Suko kissed Margaery's fingers and wished her every happiness and a long happy marriage and bla bla words bla bla…
"Your Grace is a lucky man indeed," Suko told the boy-king with a kind look. "I shall drink to your health!"
He left the at that, moving out the way for other well-wishers and the like.
The news came not long after. It seemed that Lord Tarly had sacked Duskendale, placing the poppy-addled Richard Rykker back to his 'rightful' seat as Lord of Duskendale. The lions had shown no such mercy to the Staunton's it seemed, as the young Lord Howard Staunton was no doubt set to be dragged before the King for judgment.
It was a sorry thing. The boy hadn't done anything but follow his brother – one might expect mercy for him – but anyone that knew Joffrey knew better.
His own Princely title and foreign family had earned Suko the leeway he'd been granted. That, and he'd lied, naming himself as his father's Heir.
An emperor's heir, no matter how far away from home, was far more useful than a corpse. A sentiment it seemed Lord Tywin shared.
Would that the old lion shared his other sentiments in other areas…
"Willam Stark's trial will be held after my grandson is wedded," he'd told him firmly before he'd gotten dismissed from the man's presence as if he were some common bandit after the man's purse, no better than Jalabhar Xho, an exile begging for scraps. Suko had done no begging, nor would he. You'd catch more flies with honey.
"Forgive a silly old woman, my lord," he caught the voice of the Queen of Thorns. "I assumed you would be off leading a Lannister host against some wicked foe."
"A host of dragons and stags. The master of coin must remain at court to see that all the armies are paid for..."
"To be sure. Dragons and stags, that's very clever. And dwarf's pennies as well. I have heard of these dwarf's pennies. No doubt collecting those is such a dreadful chore."
"I leave the collecting to others, my lady," the dwarf told her plainly.
"Oh, do you? I would have thought you might want to tend to it yourself. We can't have the crown being cheated of its dwarf's pennies, now. Can we?"
"Gods forbid." Tyrion had an exhausted look on his face. "If you will excuse me, Lady Olenna, it is time we were in our places."
"Myself as well. Seventy-seven courses, I daresay. Don't you find that a bit excessive, my lord? I shan't eat more than three or four bites myself, but you and I are very little, aren't we?" She looked around the room then. "Where have my guardsmen gone? Left, Right, where are you? Come help me to the dais!"
The throne room was already a blaze of light as evenfall loomed an hour away, 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.
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. Joffrey wore 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. A lovely girl, Suko thought in his cups, and a kinder fate than the boy-king deserved. Still, there was time left…
The Kingsguard escorted them onto the dais, to the seats of honor 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. Lord Tywin did the same. Joffrey received loving kisses from the bride's father and his two new brothers, Loras and Garlan. No one seemed in any great rush to kiss Lord Tyrion, his face scarred something terrible from the Battle of the Blackwater.
When the king and queen had taken their seats, the High Septon rose to lead a prayer that was as long as it was terribly boring.
Suko had been seated on the dornish table, just below the dais in a place of high honor but as far from the Tyrells as the width of the hall would allow
"I would've expected to see you seated among the lions Prince Suko," Ellaria Sand spoke to him when he took his seat and began to pour a chalice of wine.
Suko shot her his most charming smile as he replied, "when the company here is far prettier, how could I sit elsewhere?" He took a gulp of the dornish red.
Ellaria giggled at that. She was an eye-catching woman, to be sure, with an exotic flair about her. Black hair with bronze skin and an ample chest.
"Oh, I like you," she practically purred at him in reply, her eyes sparkling in the light that poured in through great windows.
"I'd hate to anger the viper by stealing you away Princess," Suko smirked at her teasingly. He might've had a bit to drink.
"We're a free-spirited people in Dorne," Prince Oberyn told him then, all smiles. "We share with our friends."
Suko almost choked on the damn wine.
"I-" He coughed, putting the wine down. "Truly?"
"Oh yes," Ellaria's smile turned devilish, eyeing him like a prime cut of venison. "I love to share…"
"Let the cups be filled!" Joffrey's loud proclamation saved him from the dornish teasing. The king's 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. Suko drank deeply, emptying his cup on that first toast and signalling for it to be refilled by one of the passing servant girls.
"May the boy choke on his wine," Suko said in Imperial as he took another gulp of dornish red.
"Those words," Oberyn looked at him strangely. "YiTish, isn't it?"
Suko blinked at the man. "You understood that?"
Oberyn's smirk grew leagues. "A word or two. It's a queer dialect you speak, I'll admit; but I'm a man of many talents…"
"Many talents indeed…"
Suko silently cursed his own carelessness.
"Worry not," Oberyn raised his cup up slightly. "Your secrets are safe with me, my friend…"
Somehow that didn't fill him with a whole lot of reassurance.
"Much appreciated," Suko said in Imperial. "Where did you learn?"
Oberyn didn't understand – or at least he barely did – some of the words held a familiar tune, only sung in a strange pitch.
"I confess I can't grasp much of it," he replied honestly, or so it seemed. "I studied at the Citadel for a time; until it bored me – but I learned many things…"
"Impressive," Suko hummed in common. He'd need to be more careful, though it was unlikely many besides the dornish Prince would get so close to understanding.
The first dish was a creamy soup of mushrooms and buttered snails, served in gilded bowls. The food was a welcome distraction. 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… funny old world…
The second course was a great pastry filled with pork, pine nuts, and eggs. The heralds were summoning the first of the seven singers.
Hamish the Harper announced that he would perform "for the ears of gods and men, a song ne'er heard before!" He called it "Lord Renly's Ride."
His fingers moved across the strings of the high harp, filling the throne room with sweet sound. "From his throne of bones, the Lord of Death looked down on the murdered lord," Hamish began, and went on to tell how Renly, repenting his attempt to usurp his nephew's crown, had defied the Lord of Death himself and crossed back to the land of the living to defend the realm against his brother. Queen Margaery was teary-eyed by the end, when the shade of brave Lord Renly flew to Highgarden to steal one last look at his true love's face. "Renly Baratheon never repented of anything in his life," the Viper muttered, "but if I'm any judge, they'll give the fool a gilded lute..."
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 Lord Tywin. "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. Suko listened as he sampled sweetcorn fritters and hot oatbread baked with bits of date, apple, and orange, and gnawed on the rib of a wild boar.
Thereafter dishes and diversions succeeded one another in a staggering profusion, buoyed along upon a flood of wine and ale. 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. A troupe of Pentoshi tumblers performed cartwheels and handstands, balanced platters on their bare feet, and stood upon each other's shoulders to form a pyramid.
Then the heralds summoned another singer; Collio Quaynis of Tyrosh, who had a vermilion beard and an accent as ludicrous as Symon had promised. Collio began with his version of "The Dance of the Dragons," which was more properly a song for two singers, male and female. They all 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 Collio had not sung it in High Valyrian, which most of the guests could not speak. But "Bessa the Barmaid" won them back with its ribald lyrics. Peacocks were served in their plumage, roasted whole and stuffed with dates, while Collio summoned a drummer, bowed low before Lord Tywin, and launched into "The Rains of Castamere."
It seemed to Suko that there was about a hundred slightly differing versions of the Rains that men sang, all to flatter the Lord of Casterly Rock.
And for what exactly? Suko found the man confusing. His reputation he'd earned for crushing one minor rebellion against a surprised and weaker foe by all accounts – ending two noble lines in the process – but had otherwise won no great victory. There was the Green Fork… but that was a faint, not a battle…
"What battles has Lord Tywin fought," Suko asked of his new dornish friends.
Oberyn looked at him strangely. "The old lion fought in the War of Ninepenny Kings-"
Strange name that was…
"Why's it called that?"
"Singers like their fancy names," Oberyn shrugged uncaring.
"Any heroics in that war from dear Tywin?" Suko pried, sipping his wine absently.
"None worth noting," Obeyrn denied with a stoic uncaring look. "Then came the Reyne's – though not for long, it's said Lannister took them by surprise and beat back Lord Reyne's desperate attempt to lift the siege on Tarbeck Hall. Reyne lost and Tywin put the Tarbecks to the slaughter…"
"Then he did the same to the beaten Reyne's," Suko assumed the end of the tale.
"Drowned them in their own mine," Oberyn told him with a scowl at the notion of all those dead children.
"Heartless bastard," the usually sweet voice of Ellaria was suddenly laced with venom.
"Careful my love," Oberyn hushed her, though it was clear he agreed with the notion.
"Is that all?" Suko couldn't help the scoff. "I heard he was some great commander, the victor of countless battles…"
"History is written by the victors," Oberyn remarked with a deep scowl.
"We save the best lies for ourselves," Suko supposed aloud, frowning as he thought of his friend.
The dornishman looked at him strangely.
"Who told you that," he asked, curious in his glance.
"Willam Stark," was the answer. "My brother – in name, if not blood; he's the kin I chose…"
The drink was making him soppy, damn it all. He shouldn't be saying half of this to the dornish Prince.
"I must meet this curious wolf of yours," Oberyn said after a moment's thought.
"You'd like him," Suko smirked once more, imagining the two men sparring with words.
"Would I like him too?" Ellaria asked him, all coy smiles and innocence glinting in her eyes,
"Oh yes," Suko actually laughed at that, putting aside his wine. "The women love him – that's his damn problem; he hates most of them."
Ellaria Sand frowned for a moment, but then smiled wide. "I can be very convincing Prince Suko…"
They all were. That was the damn problem though, wasn't it? The dangerous ones were always convincing, and Stark was ever a fool for them.
"I don't doubt that at all Princess," Suko winked at her with the harmless lie. She seemed to like that makeshift title; a weakness of sorts.
The heralds blew their trumpets. "To sing for the golden lute," one cried, "we give you Galyeon of Cuy!"
Galyeon was a big barrel-chested man with a black beard, a bald head, and a thunderous voice that filled every corner of the throne room. He brought no fewer than six musicians to play for him. "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."
The drummer began a slow and rather ominous beat. Suko's attention was gripped by this one…
"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 with enough flair on his tongue to kill a man. "My brother once ruled seven kingdoms, he said to his harridan 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 woodharp and a fiddle began to play.
"If I am ever Hand again, the first thing I'll do is hang all the singers," said Lord Tyrion, too loudly, for those near heard him clearly.
A lady laughed lightly beside him, and Ser Garlan leaned over to say, "A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant my Lord."
"The dark lord assembled his legions, they gathered around him like crows. And thirsty for blood they boarded their ships…"
"…and cut off poor Tyrion's nose," Tyrion finished aloud with some wine-soaked courage.
The lady was giggling at him. "Perhaps you should be a singer, my lord. You rhyme as well as this Galyeon."
"No, my lady," Ser Garlan said with a shake of his head. "My lord of Lannister was made to do great deeds, not to sing of them. But for his chain and his wildfire, the foe would have crossed far sooner. And if Tyrion's wildlings had not slain most of Lord Stannis's scouts, we would've never have been able to take him unawares."
They couldn't hear half of Ser Garlan's words from below the dais and the chatter, but whatever he'd said seemed to bring some light to the dwarf's eyes.
"Never believe anything you hear in a song," Prince Oberyn summoned a serving girl to refill their wine cups.
Soon it was full night outside the tall windows, and still Galyeon sang on. His song had seventy-seven verses, though it seemed more like a thousand. One for every guest in the hall. By the time the singer had taken his bows, 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. Roundels of elk stuffed with ripe blue cheese were being brought out when one of Lord Rowan's knights stabbed a Dornishman. The gold cloaks dragged them both away, one to a cell to rot and the Maester.
"Now what was that about I wonder," Suko muttered aloud at the sight of the two men being dragged away from the hall.
"If you shake a dornishman's hand," a voice he knew spoke from behind them. "You should count your fingers afterwards."
"A bold man," Prince Oberyn snarled at him. "Northman?"
"The reason for your countryman getting stabbed, Dornishman," the Northman answered, his face stoic as stone.
"Prince Oberyn," Suko nodded towards the man, dressed in a simple grey doublet with a grey cloak over his shoulders. "You've the pleasure of meeting my companion – friend of my friend, if you will – brother-in-arms of our dear Prince Willam; the tactless Outlander and Shield of Winterhold. Titles, Titles…"
"Aedan Greystark," he spoke with a groan. "Heir of Greyhold, Titles… Titles…"
Greyhold wasn't even a real castle, for god's sake, he was Heir of nothing. The Lannisters didn't know that though…
"And your charming friend?" Lady Sand asked, eyeing the woman on Aedan's arm; with amber eyes that burnt with a fire and hair cut short.
"Lady Ashlyn Stark," Suko introduced her as with a subtle wink at the woman's expense.
"Formally the Lady Amber," Aedan added with a scowl, hating every second of this mummery and being a damn poor actor.
"Charmed," Ashlyn didn't so much as curtsey for them, not that the Martell's seemed to care in the slightest.
"Stark, is it?" Oberyn's curiosity had peaked at that, all smiles, he eyed the beauty with great interest.
"Princess Ashlyn Stark, to be exact…"
Just one more thing the Lannister's had no damn way of confirming. Suko practically basked in his own genius.
"Sit my friends," He beckoned them forward happily. "Please sit, I insist, you simply must meet my new friends!"
Aedan wasn't enjoying himself at all, it appeared; nor was Ashlyn – even with their fancy new titles.
"So," Oberyn pried within a heartbeat and a sip of his dornish red. "What's your story, hmmm?"
"I'm glad you asked!" Suko declared, pouring himself some more wine. "You see – my friend Aedan here is heir to the great house of Greystark; kinsmen to his royal Grace the King of Winterhold – while the fair Princess is the bride of our friend Willam, who sadly spends his time in… less than ideal circumstances at present…"
"You and your damn stories Lóng," Aedan muttered in Imperial.
"I do love a good story," Oberyn replied to him, as Aedan's eyes shot wide open.
Suko only chuckled. "Our friend Oberyn here is a worldly man, Greystark; seems he's some grasp of an old dialect in tongue…"
"And the other too?" Aedan replied in the Old Tongue instead.
"That he doesn't grasp," Suko replied stonily. "As far as I know, at least. Can't trust anyone here..."
"We can't trust anyone anywhere," Ashlyn added with a glare shot towards the dornishman that watched them curiously.
"It's impolite to keep secrets you know," Oberyn was near pouting at them for their choice of languages.
"Mystery is the spice of life my friend," Suko countered, all smiles; shooting a playful wink towards Lady Sand.
King Joffrey lurched suddenly to his feet then. "Bring on the royal jousters!" he shouted in a voice thick with wine, clapping his hands together happily.
A wave of laughter followed them down the centre aisle toward the king. Suko looked on at the odd sight, dwarves all mounted on ugly dogs as if they were 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 clad in gold, with a black stag painted on his shield against a roaring lion; no doubt meant to represent His Grace the great King Joffrey.
"I doubt the boys ever ridden a horse into battle yet alone a dog," came the mumbled voice of Oberyn as he sipped his wine.
Another dwarf boasted a black stag on green with a flowery crown, then another with a fiery heart; then a golden kraken in black rags…
"The War of the Four Kings!" King Joffrey declared loudly to the applause of all besides Lord Tyrion, who watched with clear disgust at the show.
"Away degenerate!" The dwarf with the fiery heart yelled at the flowery one, waving his mock sword. "You're no King!"
The flowery dwarf yelp as it was struck, screaming high-pitched as he pleaded; running around in circles trying to hump the other dwarves.
"I'm drowning!" The kraken-dwarf declare suddenly, falling over and wailing his little hands around in the air to earn another round of laugher.
"Childish nonsense," Suko muttered as he watched the strange show unfold. It was the boy-kings notion of amusement; they all knew it.
A strained horn blew then from the halls entrance as a fifth dwarf arrived dressed all in grey and white, riding atop a wolf, not a dog.
The guests whispered and muttered as some ladies stepped away while the dwarf rode in on the beast. It looked skinny, beaten, with rope tightly bound around its jaws and a saddle forced on its back. "Winter's Running Away!" The wolf-dwarf declared, to the booming laughing of the crowd as it fled from the hall.
An inferno raged behind Ashlyn's eyes as she watched, muttering "monsters" as she watched; feeling wholly useless to stop them. To try would be death.
"I'll kill them all," Aedan muttered several curses in the Old Tongue; so that the dornish Prince wouldn't hear him. He watched Flash with a cold fury – the wolf beaten and bound – they'd kept him alive; but far from Aedan's grasp. The mummery only went so far and the Lannister's hardly 'trusted' them. Flash was insurance, in his case.
The fiery dwarf fell over next, stuck by a knock to the head by the dwarf playing at being King Joffrey of the House Baratheon.
The boy-king was red and breathless as he laughed, Tommen was hooting and hopping up and down in his seat, Cersei was chuckling politely, and even Lord Tywin looked mildly amused. Of all those at the high table, only Lord Tyrion was not smiling. The Dwarf of Casterly Rock had no doubt taken it all as a personal insult from Joffrey.
When the dwarfs reined up beneath the dais to salute the king, as the lords and ladies guffawed and giggled, the little dwarf-joffrey struck the helm of the fiery dwarf and knocked his head clean off. It spun through the air spattering blood to land in the lap of Lord Gyles. 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 Gyles pulled a dripping red melon out of the shattered helm, at which point the fiery knight poked his face up out of his armour and another storm of laughter rocked the hall like thunder.
The Joffrey-dwarf leapt onto the fiery one then, let down his breeches and started to pump away frantically at the other's nether portions.
"I yield, I yield," the fiery dwarf on the bottom screamed. "Good King, put up your sword!"
"I would, I would, if you'll stop moving the sheath!" the dwarf on the top replied, to the merriment of all.
Joffrey was snorting wine from both nostrils. Gasping, he lurched 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 Joffrey. "A true champion defeats all challengers." The king climbed up on the table. "Who else will challenge our tiny champion?" With a gleeful smile, he turned toward Tyrion. "Uncle! You'll defend the honor of my realm, won't you? You can ride that mang looking wolf! Someone fetch it! Lord Tyrion needs a mount!"
The laughter crashed like a wave and Tyrion Lannister found himself standing on the table. The hall was a torchlit blur of leering faces. He twisted his face into the most hideous mockery of a smile the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. "Your Grace," he called, "I'll ride the beast, but only if you ride against me!"
Joffrey scowled, confused. "Me? I'm no dwarf. Why me?"
"Why, you're the only man in the hall that I'm certain of defeating!"
Suko couldn't say which was sweeter; the instant of shocked silence, the gale of laughter that followed, or the look of blind rage on the boy-king's face. The dwarf hopped back to the floor well satisfied, blowing a not-so-friendly kiss over to his queenly sister as she glared murderous daggers at the dwarf lion.
The musicians began to play once as the tiny jousters led dog and sow from the hall, the guests returned to their tables and their chatter.
King Joffrey however was, red-faced and staggering, wine slopping over the rim of the great golden wedding chalice he carried in both hands. "Your Grace," was all Lord Tyrion 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 in his wound, ran down his cheeks, and soaked the velvet of his new doublet. "How do you like that, Imp?" Joffrey mocked him loudly.
Lord Tyrion's eyes were on fire. He dabbed at his face with the back of a sleeve and tried to blink the world back into clarity.
"That was ill done, Your Grace," Ser Garlan dared to say quietly.
"Not at all, Ser Garlan." Tyrion told him, with half the realm looking. "Not every king would think to honor me by serving from his own chalice. A pity the wine spilled…"
"It didn't spill," said Joffrey, too graceless to take the retreat Tyrion was offering him. "And I wasn't serving you, either!"
Queen Margaery appeared suddenly at Joffrey's elbow. "My sweet king," the Tyrell girl entreated, "come, return to your place, there's another singer waiting."
"Alaric of Eysen," said Lady Olenna Tyrell, leaning on her cane and taking no more notice of the wine-soaked dwarf than her granddaughter had done. "I do so hope he plays us 'The Rains of Castamere.' It has been an hour; I've forgotten how it goes."
Suko couldn't help but smirk at the old woman for that comment.
"Ser Addam has a toast he wants to make as well," said Margaery. "Your Grace, please…"
"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 won't joust, you'll be my cupbearer."
"I would be most honoured, Your Grace…"
"It's not meant to be an honor!" Joffrey screamed. "Bend down and pick up my chalice."
The hall watched as Tyrion did as he was bid, but as he reached for the handle Joffrey kicked the chalice through his legs.
"Pick it up! Are you as clumsy as you are ugly?" He had to crawl under the table to find the thing. "Good, now fill it with wine." He claimed a flagon from a serving girl and filled the goblet three-quarters full. "No, on your knees, dwarf." Kneeling, Tyrion raised up the heavy cup, wondering if he was about to get a second bath of wine. But Joffrey took the wedding chalice one-handed, drank deep, and set it on the table. "You can get up now, Uncle…"
His legs cramped as he tried to rise, and almost spilled him again. Tyrion had to grab hold of a chair to steady himself. Ser Garlan lent him a hand.
Joffrey laughed, and Cersei as well. Then others. When the King laughed at something, the court followed suit like good little sheep.
"Your Grace." Lord Tywin's voice was impeccably correct. "They are bringing in the pie. Your sword is needed."
"The pie?" Joffrey took his queen by the hand. "Come, my lady, it's the pie."
The guests stood then, shouting and applauding and smashing their wine cups together as the great pie made its slow way down the length of the hall, wheeled along by a half-dozen beaming cooks. Two yards across it was, crusty and golden brown, and they could hear squeaks and thumping coming from inside it.
King Joffrey and his queen met the pie below the dais. As Joffrey drew his sword, Margaery laid a hand on his arm to restrain him.
"Widow's Wail was not meant for slicing pie," she told her oh so gallant husband.
"True." Joffrey lifted his voice. "Ser Ilyn, your sword!"
From the shadows at the back of the hall, Ser Ilyn Payne appeared. The spectre at the feast, the King's Justice stride forward, gaunt and grim.
Ser Ilyn bowed before the king and queen, reached back over his shoulder, and drew forth six feet of ornate silver bright with runes. He knelt to offer the huge blade to Joffrey, hilt first; points of red fire winked from ruby eyes on the pommel, a chunk of dragonglass carved in the shape of a grinning skull.
Suko eyed the blade intently. "Fancy sword…"
"Courtesy of his master," Obeyrn told him in a hushed whisper. "No ordinary blade was fit for cutting off royal heads, after all…"
Joffrey and Margaery joined hands to lift the greatsword and swung it down together 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. Joffrey took his bride in his arms, and whirled her around merrily, his past outburst forgotten for a moment.
A serving man placed a slice of hot pigeon pie in front of Suko and his newfound friends and covered it with a spoon of lemon cream.
"Uncle, where are you going!?" Joffrey caught the dwarf attempting an early escape. "You're my cupbearer, remember?"
"I need to change into fresh garb, Your Grace. May I have your leave?"
"No. I like the look of you this way. Serve me my wine."
The king's chalice was on the table where he'd left it. Tyrion had to climb back onto his chair to reach it. Joffrey 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. Lord Buckler wants to toast us…"
"My uncle hasn't eaten his pigeon pie." Holding the chalice one-handed, Joffrey 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." Joffrey took a swallow of wine and coughed again, more violently. "I want to see, kof, see you ride that, kof kof, pig, Uncle. I want…" His words broke up in a fit of coughing.
Suko perked up, glancing down at the arbor red in his own chalice then over to Prince Oberyn, who was looking at the King curiously.
Queen Margaery looked at her husband with concern. "Your Grace?"
"It's, kof, the pie, noth-kof, pie." Joffrey 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 aloud at the sight of it.
Her grandmother moved to her side. "Help the poor boy!" the Queen of Thorns screeched, in a voice ten times her size. "Dolts! Help your king!"
Ser Garlan shoved Lord Tyrion aside and began to pound Joffrey on the back. Ser Osmund Kettleblack ripped open the king's collar. A fearful high thin sound emerged from the boy's throat, the sound of a man trying to suck a river through a reed; then it stopped, and that was more terrible still. "Turn him over!" Mace Tyrell bellowed at everyone and no one. "Turn him over, shake him by his heels!" A different voice was calling, "Water, give him some water!" The High Septon began to pray loudly. 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, Suko realized in the moment as pandemonium raged. They were pounding Joffrey 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. Prince Oberyn was eating his pigeon pie with lemon cream and paid it all no mind.
Joffrey was making a dry clacking noise, trying to speak. His eyes bulged white with terror, and he lifted a hand… reaching for his uncle, or pointing…
"Noooo," Cersei wailed like a banshee, "Father help him, someone help him, my son, my son! "
Margaery Tyrell was weeping in her grandmother's arms as the old lady said, "Be brave, be brave."
Most of the musicians had fled, but one last flutist in the gallery was blowing a dirge. In the rear of the throne room scuffling had broken out around the doors, and the guests were trampling on each other. Ser Addam's gold cloaks moved in to restore order. Guests were rushing headlong out into the night, some weeping, some stumbling and retching, others white with fear. The Dornish table was the only one with some semblance of calm, as their Prince was making no moves to leave…
Cersei Lannister sat in a puddle of wine, cradling her son's body. Her gown was tom and stained, her face white as chalk. A thin black dog crept up beside her, sniffing at Joffrey's corpse. "The boy is gone, Cersei," Lord Tywin said. He put his gloved hand on his daughter's shoulder as one of his guardsmen shooed away the dog. "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.
The High Septon knelt beside him. "Father Above, judge our good King Joffrey justly," he intoned, beginning the prayer for the dead. Margaery Tyrell began to sob, and her mother Lady Alerie saying, "He choked, sweetling. He choked on the pie. It was naught to do with you. He choked. We all saw..."
"He did not choke." Cersei's voice was sharp as Ser Ilyn's sword. "My son was poisoned…"
"Cersei?" asked the Kingslayer, knelt by his sister in some attempt to comfort her.
"Arrest him," she commanded him. "He did this, the dwarf did it! IT WAS HIM!"
The hall froze, all eyes falling on Lord Tyrion – who stood dumbstruck – making no effort to flee.
"He killed MY SON!" Cersei screamed aloud her lungs, a high and shrill thing. "Take him Jaime! TAKE HIM NOW!"
Suko forked some pigeon pie into his mouth as he watched the dwarf taken away by his brother. Weddings weren't such dull affairs after all…
The straw on the floor stank of urine. There was no window, no bed, not even a slop bucket. He remembered walls of pale red stone festooned with patches of nitre, a grey door of splintered wood, four inches thick and studded with iron. He had seen them, briefly, a quick glimpse as they shoved him inside. Once the door had slammed shut, he'd seen no more. The dark was absolute. He had as well been blind down here… or dead… but this was not his first time dwelling in the dark. He didn't fear it.
They were old friends, as morbid a thought as that was. He'd been here before and he'd be here again, unless the bastards chopped of his head…
"No coming back from that," he told the dark, wondering if perhaps his father would come recuse him this time. The chances seemed rather slim sadly.
His leg was throbbing with every motion, he'd found – this old wound from Duskendale – made worse tenfold by this cursed place.
"Can't breathe for shit neither," he mumbled. When he inhaled, the sharpness greeted him with a bite.
That pain kept him awake until he couldn't bear to keep his eyes open anymore.
The dungeon was under the Red Keep, deeper than he dared imagine. He remembered reading stories about Maegor the Cruel, who murdered all the masons who laboured on his castle, so they might never reveal its secrets. Those were the tunnels, he imagined; the secrets Maegor sought to keep all to his lonesome.
A woman's face seemed to float before him in the darkness. Her hair was mist and ashes, with mockery in her smile. "Who are you to defy the gods," she whispered in his dreams. "You can't escape destiny little brother," her voice was a twisted mix of sadness and glee. "No more than I could, no more than father or our brother."
"Begone shade," he waved her away in the dark, scowling akin to a hungry wolf.
"So impolite," her voice taunted him with a grin. "Your fate isn't that close, Willy."
"Says the dead woman in my head, speaking in riddles," Willam scoffed at her shadow and wishes her gone.
She listened, it seemed, for the voice faded and he was alone in the dark once more. He thought of his family too often down here and would have wept gladly for the past memories, but the tears would not come. He'd wept too much as a boy, he thought; the grief and rage had frozen hard inside him long ago. The gods were taunting him.
When he kept very still, his leg did not hurt so much, so he did his best to lie unmoving. For how long he could not say. There was no sun and no moon here to tell.
He slept and woke and slept again. He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood on a vast field of frozen snow. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares; though he was used to that…
Hell was but a poor imitation of the horrors a man could conjure within his mind in a deathly quiet moment, at least in his experience with silence – he despised it.
Willam was half-asleep when the footsteps came down the hall. At first, he thought he dreamt them; it had been long since he'd heard anything but the sound of his own voice. When the heavy wooden door creaked open, the sudden light was sharp and painful to his eyes. A lone figure was standing in the doorway.
"Welcome," he greeted the shadow. "I'd have tidied up the place, but I wasn't expecting visitors…"
"No matter Prince Stark," came the answer as the figure stepped forward. "I bring wine."
"Poison you mean…"
"Is all wine not poison of a kind?"
Willam scoffed. "Some more than others…"
The voice was strangely familiar, yet it took him a moment to place it.
"Lord Varys?" he named the uninvited guest.
"Indeed," Varys said. "Drink, my friend..."
Willam's hands took the skin, but his lips made no move to drink from it.
"You wrong me Prince," Varys said sadly. "Truly, no one loves a eunuch. Give me the skin." He drank, a trickle of red leaking from the corner of his plump mouth. "Not the equal of the vintage you might be used to I imagine, but no more poisonous than most," he concluded, wiping his lips. "Here."
Willam drank happily. "I don't suppose it matters – even if it were poison, eh?"
"Your hour has not yet come, Prince Stark…"
"My hour is ever coming," Willam countered with a frown, the wineskin empty. "It comes for us all, sooner or later."
"A sour look on life," Varys didn't look happy as his lips twitched ever so slightly at the notion.
"A true one," came the counter as he threw the wineskin aside. "A daunting truth is no less true, Spider, what is it you want?"
"Stannis Baratheon was executed on the steps of Baelor's Sept," the spider replied as if it answered any question. "The realm will not miss him – I admit that I won't – just as few would; he was not liked by the people nor the lords. Magic is a foul thing, a dark thing, ill-fit to seat the throne…"
"You speak as if I cared for the man," Willam scowled at the spider's words.
"You should," Varys scolded. "Your fate hangs in the balance…"
"I care nothing for my fate, Spider; you mistake me."
"Most men fear death," he argued with a deepening frown.
"I'm a great many things Lord Varys, but never that – now answer my damn question…"
The Spider seemed to judge him as one might prey, looking him over slowly. He doubtless made for a sorry sight, this Prince in rags, living in the dark with his own piss and shit in one corner of a small room that smelt as foul as sin. "I serve the realm, always," the Spider decided on his words. "I'd know who you serve Prince Willam…"
"Who I serve, eh?"
The notion made him chuckle.
"Argh," he groaned, clutching his chest. It hurt something fierce to laugh.
"Are you in pain?" Varys asked him then with no small concern.
"Only when I breathe," Willam answered, scowling at the sharpness of it.
It was an amusing question, for one that spent half his life fleeing duty. Who did he serve?
"I serve Myself," Willam supposed too easily, with too much doubt in his eyes.
"And the truth?" Varys pried, waiting, curious.
"Family," Willam decided, too tired and beaten to stomach a lie. "Is that the answer you sought Spider?"
"Ah family," Varys smiled at him with thin lips. "Love is ever the death of duty, I know…"
"Who said anything about love, eh? Blood is blood…"
"Your wife will be remiss to hear that I'm sure," the Spider seemed to catch him in some falsehood.
"My wife…"
"The lovely lady Ashlyn?"
"Suko," Willam cursed the name. What tales had he spun?
"Your friend speaks highly of you," the Spider's smile seemed to grow.
"True friends are rare commodities…"
"That they are," Varys nodded. "He plays the game well…"
"You should see his siblings," Willam smirked at the thought.
"His secret is safe with me I assure you. Your deaths are the last thing I seek…"
"And why is that?" Willam doubted, scowling at the man as he pushed against the damp wall and got to his feet.
"This land has suffered greatly," Varys began, his thin lips turning sour to a sad frown. "King Aerys showed great promise once, but his ambition turned to madness; twisting and turning a once great king against his people. And then came his son, the people's prince, slain by King Robert; who beggared the realm after them…"
"There's some point to this story I wager," Willam pried, clutching one hand to his chest.
"Mad Kings or False Kings, the realm bleeds regardless; it's the people who suffer needlessly."
"A terrible tale of woe," Willam huffed at the thought. "What does this have to do with me though?"
"Westeros does not need more enemies," Varys told him, all stern and serious; perhaps the first thing Willam could tell was a whole truth.
"Westeros will have one regardless, on tides of blood my family will come for me Spider – and Winter comes with them."
"For the Lannisters," Varys emphasized. "I should hope…"
Willam scowled at the man. What game was he playing, willing such upon them?
"Joffrey is a Lannister," Willam pushed the notion, testing the waters, trying to get some read on the man.
"King Joffrey is dead," Varys replied bluntly. "Poisoned at his own wedding – a terrible affair, to be sure…"
There was no love in his voice. Reading him was difficult, but that much was clear as day.
It left the question though, if not lions, then what beast did spiders bow to?
"Who do you serve then, Lord Varys?"
"I serve the realm," the Spider smiled its thin smile.
Damn non-answers. Willam scowled, eyes never leaving the spider.
"Can you free me from this pit then? Would you if you could?"
"I could," Varys told him. "Questions would be asked however, and the answers would lead back to me…"
Willam actually smirked at the bluntness of it. "Well then, it seems your precious realm will bleed after all Spider. I thought you wished peace?"
"Peace," Varys agreed without hesitation. "If there was one soul who was truly desperate to keep Robert Baratheon alive, it was me." He sighed. "For fifteen years I protected him, but I could not protect him from his friends. Whatever strange madness led Ned Stark to tell the queen he'd learned the truth of Joffrey's birth…"
"You lie," Willam's eyes flashed with a fresh fire. "Ned wasn't that… stupid…"
"I asked the man," Varys continued despite the wolf's growls. "He told me: the madness of mercy."
Ned had warned her then… he didn't wish to believe it, but it reeked of the blind honor one came to expect from the man…
"Damn him," Willam leaned his back up against the cell wall and cursed for all the lives lost for one man's honor. "The damn fool…"
"Ah," said Varys. "You weren't aware? To be sure. He was an honest and honourable man, Lord Eddard. Ofttimes, I forgot that. I have met so few of them in my life." He glanced around the cell. "When I see what honesty and honor won him, I understand why such virtues are rare..."
Willam rested against the damp stone wall and closed his eyes. It explained a lot. "Ned lit the fire under us all then…"
"Oh, indeed, with Robert's favourite vintage too." The eunuch shrugged. "A hunter lives a perilous life. If the boar had not done for Robert, it would have been a fall from a horse, the bite of a wood adder, an arrow gone astray… the forest is the abattoir of the gods. It was not wine that killed the king. It was Ned Stark's mercy."
"Gods," Willam cursed at it all with a groan. How many men and women had died for Ned's mercy? He should've acted sooner… hindsight was a cruel bitch…
"If there are gods," Varys said, "I expect them uncaring. The queen would not have waited long in any case. Robert was becoming unruly, and she needed to be rid of him to free her hands to deal with his brothers. They were quite a pair, Stannis and Renly. The iron gauntlet and the silk glove." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Ned had been foolish, my lord. He ought to have heeded Littlefinger when he urged him to support Joffrey's succession."
And how did the spider know about that?
"The damn walls have ears in this cursed place…"
"Indeed," Varys hummed. "I also know that on the morrow the queen will pay you a visit."
Willam raised his eyes. "The Queen? Why?"
"Cersei and you have a friend in common," Varys revealed oh so politely.
"Suko," Willam guessed, huffing a breath of laughter at the idea of it. It sounded like something Lóng would do, the sly bastard.
"The very same," Varys nodded. "Prince Lóng has convinced her you are pliable enough; just as the others are…"
"The others…"
"Lord Greystark, from a house of known traitors," Varys said after a moment, reciting all Westeros knew of them. "And then there's your lady wife…"
"Princess Ashlyn," Willam tasted the title. 'Lord' Greystark too, heh; how the other Greystark's would rage to hear that. "Has a nice ring to it, eh Spider?"
"They celebrate victory but the war rages on," Varys ignored him, frowning once more as he spoke. "Lysa Arryn sits in the Eyrie, ringed in stone and steel, with no love lost between her and the Lannisters. In Dorne, the Martells still brood on the murder of Princess Elia. And then Robb Stark remains in rebellion, making a fool of Lord Tywin…"
"The boy has quite the talent for leading men at least," Willam admitted that much, the boy had a good head for warfare. "Where is he now?"
"The Twins by my last reports," Varys revealed easily. "Married to his bride and heading northward, to remove the ironborn from his homeland…"
A move that would prove wise should the gods be kind. And if not, well… a lord that couldn't protect his home was no lord at all…
"The Queen wishes my allegiance then," it was an easy assumption to make. What other reason could she have, if not a desire for his head off his shoulders?
"A Stark in Winterfell loyal to them," Varys confirmed with a slight nod. "An alluring prospect for even the old lion, it seems; though the man is hesitant to trust you – for whatever Lord Tywin's faults, he's no fool – unlike his daughter. There are further whispers too, across the Narrow Sea, the Braavosi are preparing for something…"
"Braavos?" Willam recalled the name, his bastard brother's last reported destination before he sailed off the edge of the map.
"The very same," Varys looked troubled by it. "My little birds sing of their armada mobilizing…"
"For what purpose exactly, I'm sure you'd know?"
Varys shook his head. The spider didn't seem to know that much.
"The old lion fears they mean to call on the debt Westeros owes them," he revealed, unsure of the truth. "The Iron Bank always gets its due, one way or another."
"They need peace quickly then," Willam understood that much. "Least their debtors come knocking, heh – with half the realm in open rebellion."
"Prince Lóng has assured the lions that you'd be hungry to claim Winterfell. A youngest son, with nothing to inherit; eager for land and title..."
"Using her ample assets to sway my loyalty, no doubt," Willam scoffed at the mental image. "I know her type quite well."
"Oh?" Varys seemed surprised.
A woman's best weapon was her beauty.
"I'm not Ned Stark," Willam told him sharpy.
"No," Varys agreed. "You're not – though I wonder, what does that make you exactly my friend?"
What did that make him? Ned wasn't a bad man, by any stretch, he was a good lord loved by his people that ruled well in peace – but was wholly useless at politics – his choices leading to the deaths of so many men and women. "I'm a Stark," Willam decided bluntly. "Might be Ned forgot what that meant, but I haven't…"
Honor was not necessarily a Stark trait as Ned seemed to believe. The man had been raised by Arryn's though, one supposed… as High as Honor…
"I see," Varys hummed in thought, seeming to weigh his character and judge as he liked.
"No," Willam smirked devilishly. "You don't, but you will, sooner or later."
"You will dance to her tune then I assume Prince…"
It wasn't a question. The spider had his measure of him well enough.
"I'll dance," Willam agreed with a scoff. "Not sure what the tune is just yet Spider, but I'm a fast learner…"
He'd survived the wastes. He'd survived the courts of Dawn. He'd seen and survived worse than Cersei Fucking Lannister.
Something hit him then, a thought that struck like a horses hindlegs against his skull to send him reeling.
"How did he die then, truly?" Willam looked at the spider's eyes for some sign of a falsehood.
"Quietly," Varys answered with some hint of sadness. "Cersei feared him and left him for too long, I'm afraid. The wound took his life in the end…"
Willam's thoughts wandered to his own wounds. His leg still hurt, his rips bruised or broken; he could only pray the damage was not so severe – recalling Ned's leg, bleeding freely, he eyed the spider and could see no lie in his eyes. "He's dead then," he spoke the words and didn't quite know how to feel. "How long?"
"Long ago," Varys told him with a sigh. "A closely kept secret, least you put Ser Kevan and the others to the sword…"
"Gods," Willam muttered some curses at that.
He'd suspected as much… but still…
"If there are gods, they-"
"There are," Willam interrupted. "Just not the gods you know..."
"The Old Gods?" Varys said, his tone dripping with doubts and a note curiosity.
"I'm not so sure," Willam closed his eyes shut. "I've seen things though, dark strange things that you'd not believe..."
When his eyes opened, he expected to see the look of a man that thought him mad; only to see the slightest flash of fear instead.
"I wish you good fortune Prince Willam," he told him, walking towards the cell door and closing it shut; returning the world back to darkness and shadow.
The old tales held some weight to them, Willam knew, he'd seen it for himself many times. The lizard-men of the wastes. The green demons and the fish-gods they worshiped; all too real even in death – from shadows that moved and wargs in the skies – the world was not so black and white as these andals liked to believe.
My Note(s): Suko playing the Game of Thrones like it's no big deal and Willam following suit, while he (+ Aedan/Ash) are still very much prisoners, it's thanks to Suko that they're at least 'comfortable' ones thanks to some bold lies here and there; too easy a thing for dear Suko who is very used to playing the 'game' so to speak. It's nothing new for him. We'll go into further detail later – lots of little lies in this chapter – with even more details to cover next time we're in King's Landing. Lots going on here.
Ned is dead *pause for shocked gasps* but such was heavily hinted at multiple times before, the Lannister's kept it secret and lied (much as they lied about having Arya in canon) simply because without Ned as their captive they'd have no hostages to leverage against Kevan and the other prisoners. Lannister's lie, it's shocking I know :P