"Why in seven hells were there seventy-seven courses?" Tyrion mused, his frustration clear. "They might as well have had seven hundred and seventy-seven for all it's worth. Nobody would eat over two bites of any course, although if Wyman Manderly were here, he would give it a good go," he surmised. "It's an utter waste of money. At least with seven hundred and seventy-seven, they would be able to feed the leftovers to the residents of Flea Bottom for at least a sennight."
If he had to hazard a guess, it wasn't the number seventy-seven, but two sevens. Both represented the seven gods. It was sickly sweet, enough to make one retch, even without the copious amounts of wine Tyrion had already consumed.
The peacocks adorned the tables, served in their plumage, roasted whole, and stuffed with dates. "How did they not burn the feathers?" Tyrion pondered silently, for he had nobody to converse with. Despite the thousand-strong guests, all Tyrion had was wine and his own company to endure throughout this entire farce. The more wine he drank, the more he found solace in his own company.
The entertainment began as a drummer was summoned to inaugurate the proceedings. He bowed before Lord Tywin and launched into The Rains of Castamere. "If I have to endure seven versions of that, I may go down to Flea Bottom and apologise to the stew," Tyrion groaned.
Meanwhile, four master pyromancers conjured beasts of living flame, while servers distributed bowls of blandissory, a concoction of beef broth and boiled wine sweetened with honey, garnished with blanched almonds and capon chunks.
Next came strolling pipers, accompanied by clever dogs and sword swallowers, as the guests were served with buttered pease, chopped nuts, and swan poached in a peach and saffron sauce.
For the fourth course, a juggler expertly kept half a dozen swords and axes whirling through the air, while skewers of blood sausage, brought sizzling to the tables, provided a juxtaposition that Tyrion found clever, though perhaps not in the best of taste. This was especially poignant considering the planned final entertainment for the evening.
The heralds blew their trumpets. "To sing for the golden lute, we give you Galyeon of Cuy." Galyeon, sporting a black beard and bald head, possessed a thunderous voice that filled every inch of the throne room. He was accompanied by six musicians.
"Noble lords and ladies fair, I sing but one song for you this night. It is the song of the Blackwater, and how a realm was saved," Galyeon announced, his voice commanding attention as the drummer set a slow, ominous beat.
"The dark lord brooded high in his tower, in a castle as black as the night.
Black was his hair and black was his soul,
He feasted on bloodlust and envy, and filled his cup full up with spite,
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," a wood-harp and a fiddle began to play.
"Twas if only I was Hand of the King," Tyrion lamented aloud, "For the first thing I'd do is hang these singers," his voice too loud for the setting. Lady Leonette, seated beside him, laughed.
Ser Garlan leaned over, offering a counterpoint. "A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow, knowing better. There was nothing valiant about Joffrey's cowardice during the battle of the Blackwater. The wretched boy had fled, cowering behind his mother's skirts. Such was the bravery of the Golden King.
"The dark lord assembled his legions, they gathered around him like crows," the singer continued.
"And thirsty for blood they boarded their ships …"
"… and cut off poor Tyrion's nose," Tyrion interjected before the singer could jest at his expense. Best he make the joke himself first.
"Perhaps you should be a singer, my lord. You rhyme as well as this Galyeon," Lady Leonette teased, her voice light with amusement.
"No, my lady," Ser Garlan interjected. "My lord of Lannister was made to do great deeds, not to sing of them. But for his wildfire, Stannis would have been across the river." Tyrion appreciated Ser Garlan's praise, but it did little to ease his frustration as Galyeon droned on with endless nauseating verses about the supposed valour of the boy king and his mother, the golden queen.
Tyrion motioned for a serving man to refill his cup. Night had fallen outside, yet Galyeon's song showed no signs of ending. It was rumoured to have seventy-seven verses, though it felt more like a thousand. Tyrion stopped listening to the vomit-inducing drivel; it was enough to put him off his food. Instead, he drowned his irritation in wine, imbibing more than his fair share.
By the time the singer finally took his bows, like Tyrion, some of the guests were drunk, providing unintentional entertainment of their own. Grand Maester Pycelle dozed off while the dancers from the Summer Isles twirled in robes of bright silk. As elk stuffed with ripe blue cheese was served, a brawl erupted when one of Lord Rowan's knights stabbed a Dornishman. Both were promptly escorted away by the gold cloaks, one to a cell and the other to the Maester for treatment.
Tyrion was toying with a leche of brawn when King Joffrey abruptly rose to his feet. "Bring on my royal jousters!" he bellowed, his voice thick with wine, punctuated by a clap of his hands.
How in seven hells is my nephew drunker than me? Tyrion pondered, watching as the gold cloaks swung open the large oak doors at the end of the hall.
A wave of laughter greeted the jousters, who turned out to be a pair of dwarfs. Their hobby horse mounts represented the animal sigils of the kings they were impersonating. One was perched atop a stick, with the stuffed head of a golden lion, while the other sported a black-painted pig's head adorned with stag antlers, symbolising Stannis as the pretend King.
'Oh, the irony,' Tyrion chuckled to himself.
The diminutive wooden knights were clad in painted wooden armour that clattered and clacked as they bounced in their saddles. Their shields, larger than themselves, swayed with their every movement, eliciting further laughter from the crowd.
The dwarf riding the lion's head was decked out in gold with a black stag painted on his shield, while the other, dressed in gray and black, bore a shield emblazoned with a flaming heart—the sigil of Stannis Baratheon.
Tyrion surveyed the room, taking in the laughter that echoed off the walls. Joffrey was flushed and breathless, Tommen bounced excitedly, Cersei chuckled, and even his Lord Father wore a faint smile. Yet, amidst the joviality, one person stood out—Lord Baelish, his expression far from amused. Tyrion couldn't fathom why the performance would offend him.
Any troupe of mummers could have staged the scene, but the decision to use dwarfs was undoubtedly aimed at mocking Tyrion. If he hadn't been a dwarf himself, perhaps he could have found the humour in it, but alas, that was not the case. Tyrion had been the one to champion the use of wildfire in the Battle of the Blackwater, while Joffrey had fled. The mockery implied the opposite.
As the dwarfs approached the dais to salute the king, the Stannis knight's shield slipped from his grasp, causing the antlers to tumble from the pig's head atop his mount. Seizing the opportunity, the lion knight flung green powder over the mini-Stannis before striking him with his shield.
"I yield, I yield," the dwarf on the bottom cried out.
"Good ser, put up your sword!"
"I would, I would if you'll stop moving the sheath!" the dwarf on the top retorted, prompting laughter from all around.
Joffrey's laughter was so raucous, that wine spewed from both nostrils as he leapt to his feet, overturning the tall two-handed wedding chalice he and Margaery had been drinking from.
"A champion," he proclaimed. "We have a champion!" The hall fell silent as the king's words echoed.
As the dwarfs disentangled themselves, likely expecting royal commendation, Joffrey's tone shifted. "Not a true champion, though," he declared. "A true champion defeats all challengers." Climbing onto the table, he challenged the room, his gaze settling on Tyrion with a cruel smile. "Uncle! You'll defend the honour of my realm, won't you? You can ride the pig!" Laughter erupted, and humiliation washed over Tyrion.
Undeterred, Tyrion ascended his chair and then the table. "Your Grace," he began with a bow, "I'll ride the lion … but only if you ride the pig!"
Joffrey scowled. "Me? I'm no dwarf. Why me?"
"Why, you're the only man in the hall that I'm certain of defeating!" Tyrion retorted with such sugary sweetness it could have rivalled candied fruit. But nothing was sweeter than the sight of blind rage on Joffrey's face in response to Tyrion's cruel jape.
Satisfied with his rejoinder, Tyrion hopped back to the floor. By the time he looked back, Ser Osmund and Ser Meryn were assisting Joffrey as well. Catching Cersei's glare, he blew her a mocking kiss. Fortunately, the musicians started up a tune, signalling the departure of the miniature jousters from the hall. Tyrion promptly called for another cup of wine.
"It didn't spill," Joffrey sneered. "And I wasn't serving you, either."
"I have no wine," Joffrey called out. "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," Tyrion bowed his wine-soaked head.
"It's not meant to be an honour!" Joffrey screamed. "Get on your knees, Uncle Imp, and pick up my chalice."
Tyrion complied, but as he reached for it, Joffrey kicked it along the table.
"Pick it up! Are you as clumsy as you are ugly?"
Tyrion got down on his hands and knees, crawling under the table to retrieve the chalice. It had rolled down from the dais and onto the centre aisle, where the dwarves had been jousting. When he finally rescued it, it was filled with lion hair. As tempting as it was to fill it with wine in its current state, Tyrion knew the situation would only escalate.
"Good, now fill it with wine," Joffrey instructed, grabbing a flagon from a serving girl.
"It is dirty, Your Grace," Tyrion warned.
"Fool, fetch me another goblet then."
Tyrion was about to rise, but the King's snivelling tones halted him. "No, on your knees, dwarf. I want you to crawl, take the wedding chalice with you."
Reluctantly, Tyrion sank to his knees, lifted the heavy cup, and crawled back to the table. There, he spotted a Lannister red goblet adorned with a golden lion overlay, matching the one Margaery was using. Tyrion seized it and crawled over to the King. Taking the flagon of wine from Joffrey, he poured it into the cup and handed it to him. Joffrey accepted the goblet, took a sip, then returned it to the table.
"You can get up now, Uncle," Joffrey commanded.
Tyrion struggled to his feet, his knees protesting from the ordeal of crawling across the floor. He gripped a nearby chair to steady himself before retaking his seat. His doublet and small clothes were soaked in wine, but he knew he couldn't change until after the bedding ceremony, still several dishes away.
No sooner had he settled back into his seat than he had to rise again. The enormous pie was making its grand entrance, wheeled down the length of the hall by a group of beaming cooks, while guests cheered and banged their cups in excitement. The enormous masterpiece, two yards across, boasted a crusty, golden-brown exterior.
Joffrey and Margaery converged with the pie below the dais. Joffrey raised his voice. "Ser Ilyn, your sword!"
Ser Ilyn Payne emerged from the rear of the hall. He bowed before the king and queen, then retrieved a greatsword with an ornate silver pommel from over his shoulder. Kneeling, he offered the massive blade to Joffrey, hilt first.
Joffrey and Margaery grasped the greatsword together, then swung it down in unison. The piecrust shattered, releasing a flurry of doves that soared in every direction, while white feathers blanketed the gold carpet like snow. The crowd erupted in cheers, and the musicians in the gallery struck up a lively tune. Joffrey swept Margaery into his arms, twirling her around as her hair caught the falling feathers.
A server placed a slice of pigeon pie before Tyrion. He glanced at it but found it unappetising. The pie might taste fine, but Tyrion felt too uncomfortable in his wet clothes. "Fuck this," he thought, "I'm going to change into some dry attire."
As he rose from his seat, Joffrey called out to him. "Uncle, where are you going? You're my cupbearer, remember?"
"I need to change into fresh clothes, Your Grace. May I have your leave?"
"No. I like the look of you this way. Serve me my wine," Joffrey commanded.
Tyrion found Joffrey's cup where he'd left it on the table. Walking around the table, he retrieved it and handed it to Joffrey, who snatched it from him and took a deep gulp.
"My lord," Margaery interjected, "we should return to our places."
"My uncle hasn't eaten his pigeon pie. It's ill luck not to eat the pie," Joffrey insisted, his voice strained. "Dry, though. Needs washing down." He took another swig of wine, then coughed violently. "I want to see, kof, see you ride that, kof kof, pig, Uncle. I want …" His words were cut off by another fit of coughing.
"Your Grace?" Margaery's concern was clear as she looked at him.
"It's, kof, the pie," Joffrey gasped, attempting to take another drink. But another round of coughing caused him to expel all the wine, doubling him over. His face turned red. "I, kof, I can't, kof kof kof kof …" The goblet slipped from his grasp, and dark red wine spilt across the dais, staining the golden carpet and the white feathers crimson.
"He's choking," Queen Margaery exclaimed.
Her grandmother rushed to her side, urgency thick in her voice. "Help the poor boy!" the Queen of Thorns screeched, her words piercing the chaos, her stature seeming to amplify her command. "Dolts! Will you all stand about gaping? Help your king!"
Ser Garlan, with a forceful shove, displaced Tyrion and pounded Joffrey on the back. Ser Osmund Kettleblack wasted no time, ripping open the king's collar. A fearful, high-pitched sound escaped from the boy's throat, akin to a man attempting to draw water through a reed; then silence fell, an eerie calm amidst the storm.
"Turn him over!" Mace Tyrell's booming voice reverberated through the chaos, commanding but frantic. "Turn him over, shake him by his heels!" Amidst the clamour, another voice cried out, "Water, give him some water!" The High Septon's prayers joined the cacophony, rising above the turmoil.
Grand Maester Pycelle's voice cut through the commotion, urgent and strained, as he called for assistance to return to his chambers, to fetch his potions. Joffrey, in his agony, clawed at his throat, leaving bloody trails in his wake. Beneath his skin, muscles tensed like unyielding stone. Prince Tommen's screams mingled with his tears.
"He is going to die," Tyrion realised, a curious calm settling over him amidst the pandemonium raging about.
They continued pounding Joff on the back, but his complexion only grew darker. Dogs barked, children wailed, and men shouted useless advice amidst the chaos. Half of the wedding guests stood, some jostling for a better view, while others hurried for the exits in a desperate bid to escape.
Ser Meryn forced the king's mouth open, attempting to insert a spoon down his throat. In that moment, Joffrey's eyes locked with Tyrion's. He has Jaime's eyes. Yet, never had Tyrion witnessed such fear in Jaime's gaze. The boy, only sixteen years old, emitted a dry clacking noise, attempting to speak. His eyes bulged with terror, and his hand trembled, reaching out... perhaps for his uncle, or gesturing... Is he pleading for my forgiveness, or does he believe I can save him?
"Noooo," Cersei's wail pierced the tumult, "Father, help him, someone, help him, my son, my son…" Tyrion's gaze shifted to the forgotten wedding chalice lying on the floor. He retrieved it.
A half-inch of deep purple wine remained in the bottom. After a brief pause, Tyrion emptied it onto the floor. Meanwhile, Margaery Tyrell wept in her grandmother's embrace, the elder lady offering words of encouragement, "Be brave, be brave."
Most of the musicians had fled, save for one lone flutist in the gallery, playing a mournful dirge. At the rear of the throne room, scuffles erupted near the doors as guests trampled over each other. Ser Addam's gold cloaks moved in to restore order amidst the chaos. Guests streamed out into the night, some weeping, others stumbling and retching, their faces pale with fear. It dawned on Tyrion, rather belatedly, that it might be prudent to leave as well.
When he heard Cersei's scream, he knew it was all over. I should go. Now. Despite this realization, he waddled toward her. His sister sat amidst a puddle of wine, cradling her son's lifeless body. Her gown was torn and stained, her complexion ashen.
"The boy is gone, Cersei," Lord Tywin's voice cut through the turmoil as he placed a gloved hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Release him. Let him go."
She seemed not to hear, her grip unyielding. It took two Kingsguard to pry her fingers loose, allowing the body of King Joffrey Baratheon to slide limply to the floor.
The High Septon knelt beside him. "Father Above, judge our good King Joffrey justly," he intoned, commencing the prayer for the departed.
Margaery Tyrell's sobs filled the air, accompanied by her mother Lady Alerie's consoling words, "He choked, sweetling. He choked on the pie. It had nothing to do with you. He choked. We all saw."
"He did not choke," Cersei's voice sliced through the tension, as sharp as Ser Ilyn's sword. "My son was poisoned." Her gaze bore into the white knights standing helplessly nearby. "Kingsguard, fulfil your duty."
"My lady?" Ser Loras Tyrell hesitated, unsure.
"Arrest my brother," Cersei's command was firm. "He did this, the dwarf. He killed my son. Your king. Take him! Do you hear me? Take him!"