Margaery II
This was Margaery's second wedding, and the atmosphere surrounding it couldn't have been more different from her first. Her marriage to Renly Baratheon had been a brief affair, conducted in the serene confines of the sept in Highgarden. It had been an intimate ceremony, attended by no more than twenty close family and friends. Dressed in her finest gown, Margaery had felt beautiful, but the event itself had been devoid of the grandeur that accompanied a royal union. There had been no extravagant gifts, no lavish feast, and no boisterous celebrations. Instead, she had found herself waking the next day to the unexpected title of "Queen," a label that felt both thrilling and hollow.
Now, however, she stood on the cusp of a marriage that promised to be everything her first had not been. This time, the stakes were higher, and the atmosphere was alive with opulence and anticipation. The lavish decorations transformed the great sept into a fairy tale, filled with flowers that cascaded from the walls and golden tapestries that caught the light like spun gold. The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices and sweet pastries, a promise of the indulgence to come.
As she prepared for the ceremony, Margaery could hardly contain her excitement. This time, she would not just be a queen in name. The lords and ladies of the realm would gather to witness her ascension, and this time, she intended to make her mark.
The first wedding had left her with lessons learned. She understood the intricacies of court politics and the importance of securing alliances. The stakes were now much higher, and she was determined to play the game to her advantage. With Joffrey, she could forge alliances that would bolster her family's power and ensure her place in the history of Westeros.
As she stood before the ornate mirror, Margaery admired her reflection. Her gown was a masterpiece—crafted from rich silks that hugged her figure and adorned with intricate embroidery that shimmered under the light. Her hair was elegantly styled, adorned with jewels that glinted like stars in the night sky.
She stood at the top of the aisle, taking a moment to absorb the grandeur of the hall before her. Hundreds, if not thousands, of attendees filled the space, their voices a low hum that echoed against the stone walls. Lords and ladies from every corner of the realm had gathered to witness this momentous occasion, their eyes shimmering with anticipation and curiosity. At the other end of the aisle stood Joffrey Baratheon.
Margaery took a deep breath, allowing the air to settle in her lungs as she assessed the young king. He was far from the gentle, kind-hearted Renly. Joffrey had no patience for diplomacy or discussions of peace; his heart was steeped in ambition, and he spoke more of war and conquest than of unity and love. Yet, as she considered him, Margaery realized he could give her everything Renly couldn't - he would be a true husband. Underneath his bravado lay the potential for greatness, and with the right guidance, they could build a dynasty that would echo through the annals of history.
As she locked eyes with Joffrey, she felt the weight of expectation pressing down on her. This was her chance to shape not just her future but the future of the realm. A small smile tugged at her lips; she would mold Joffrey into the leader he was destined to be, even if it required a bit of careful shaping.
Her father, Lord Mace Tyrell, took her arm, offering a steadying presence as they began their slow procession down the aisle. He beamed at her, his face a portrait of pride, and Margaery felt warmth spread through her heart. As they moved closer to the altar, the flickering candlelight danced across the faces of the crowd, highlighting the anticipation in their eyes. Margaery could feel the energy in the room shift, the air thick with hope and speculation. She was no longer just a girl from Highgarden; she was a woman stepping into the role of queen, ready to take her place at Joffrey's side.
The sept's vaulted ceilings soared above them, adorned with intricate stained glass that filtered the sunlight into a kaleidoscope of colors, bathing the hall in ethereal light. This sacred space felt alive with the whispers of countless couples who had stood in the same spot, pledging their lives to one another. Yet, as she approached Joffrey, Margaery knew her path would be different.
She had come to understand that love was not the only thing that mattered in this game. Power, ambition, and the will to shape one's destiny were just as crucial. Margaery would embrace this new reality, using every tool at her disposal to navigate the treacherous waters of the royal court.
Finally, they reached the altar, and her father stepped back, his proud smile lingering in her mind. Margaery turned to Joffrey, who wore a mixture of excitement and arrogance. She returned his gaze with confidence, determined to ensure that this marriage would be a partnership of strength and influence.
As the ceremony commenced, a wave of certainty washed over Margaery. In this moment, standing before the Septon and surrounded by the grandeur of the Sept, she felt a powerful sense of purpose. The air was thick with expectation and the scent of burning candles, and as the Septon began the rites, she focused her attention on Joffrey.
The Septon directed Joffrey to drape his cloak—a heavy fabric emblazoned with the golden stag of House Baratheon—over her shoulders, replacing the rich green and gold of House Tyrell. It was a symbolic act, an acknowledgment of the union between their two houses, but Margaery felt the weight of it, the mantle of responsibility settling upon her shoulders.
Though she barely registered the words of the ceremony, her gaze remained locked with Joffrey's, searching for the connection she needed to cultivate. He had to love her—truly love her—not just as a queen or a political ally, but as a woman.
As the Septon tied their hands together with a golden ribbon, Margaery smiled at Joffrey, a gentle, encouraging gesture. She had spent years learning the intricacies of courtly life, mastering the art of manipulation, and understanding the desires of men. A king was no different; he would respond to her guidance, and she would make him a ruler worthy of the Iron Throne.
"Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Joffrey of House Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul," the Septon proclaimed, his voice resonating throughout the hall. "Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."
The moment felt charged, and as Joffrey turned to face the crowd, his voice rang out, bold and defiant. "With this kiss, I pledge my love." He cupped her face in his hands, leaning in for a kiss that was surprisingly gentle—a fleeting touch of lips that sent a ripple of applause through the assembled guests. In that instant, she felt the collective breath of the crowd, the excitement vibrating through the air, and knew this was just the beginning.
As they stepped outside the Sept, the sunlight bathed them in golden warmth. Margaery's heart swelled as she beheld the throngs of people gathered in the streets, their faces alight with joy and anticipation. The people of King's Landing had turned out in their thousands to witness the union of their king and queen. Joffrey had always seemed anxious around the common folk, but Margaery knew that this moment was crucial.
Taking the lead, she raised her hand, waving enthusiastically at the crowd. "Look!" she said to Joffrey, her voice tinged with encouragement. "They want to see you!"
It didn't take long for him to join in, the tension in his shoulders easing as he followed her lead. Together, they became a unified front, a spectacle of power and beauty. The crowd erupted into chants of "King Joffrey! Queen Margaery!" and soon it transformed into a thunderous "Long Live the King! Long Live Queen Margaery!" The noise swelled around them, filling the streets with a sense of elation that Margaery hoped would reach the very hearts of the people.
In that moment, she felt invincible. With the crowd rallying behind them, she envisioned the path ahead—a path where she would stand at Joffrey's side, not just as his wife but as a force to be reckoned with. Together, they would navigate the treacherous waters of the realm, and she would ensure that their reign was marked by prosperity and strength.
Margaery turned to Joffrey, her heart racing with excitement and ambition. This was not merely a wedding; this was the beginning of a legacy. As they descended the steps, hand in hand, she smiled brightly, the future unfolding before them, full of promise and power.
The grounds of the Red Keep had transformed into a vibrant tapestry of celebration, awash with bright colors and laughter. Every corner of the vast courtyard was adorned with long tables brimming with sumptuous food and overflowing flagons of wine. Lords and ladies mingled, their voices rising in merriment as they reveled in the aftermath of the wedding.
Margaery stood at the head table, her gaze sweeping across the jubilant assembly, but her heart tightened as she glanced at Joffrey beside her. His expression was one of indifference, the flicker of boredom evident as he watched a group of musicians play a lively rendition of The Rains of Castamere. It was supposed to be a joyful occasion, yet Joffrey seemed disinterested, a frown tugging at his lips. Margaery felt a twinge of worry; she knew how important it was for her to capture his full attention and affection.
With a sigh, she forced her focus away from Joffrey and directed her attention to her grandmother, who was making her way toward Sansa at the end of the head table. Margaery had invested considerable effort into befriending Sansa, believing that their alliance could yield mutual benefits. At first, it had seemed promising—Sansa was sweet and earnest, a kindred spirit in a world rife with intrigue. However, Margaery sensed a shift in the lady recently, an almost palpable distance that made Sansa feel less like an ally and more like a fragile flower at the mercy of a storm.
Rumours about Joffrey's fleeting interest in Sansa had reached Margaery's ears, and she couldn't help but feel a surge of jealousy. It was a dangerous game they played, and Margaery had heard whispers about Joffrey's entanglement with Roslin Stark, adding another layer of complexity to the web she was weaving. Yet none of that mattered now. The only thing that truly counted was redirecting Joffrey's attention to her.
"You look exquisite," Olenna Tyrell remarked to Sansa, her voice warm and soothing, yet edged with the wisdom of years. "I haven't had the chance to express how sorry I am that things didn't work out for your marriage to Willas. It is a pity, truly. I know Tyrion Lannister wasn't your first choice of husband, but I do hope you find true happiness with him."
As Olenna spoke, her keen eyes roamed over Sansa's gown—a soft, flowing fabric that accentuated her beauty without overwhelming it. Sansa felt a flutter of gratitude for Olenna's kind words, even as the memories of her marriage to Willas lingered like shadows at the corners of her mind.
Just then, Tyrion arrived to take his seat beside Sansa, his presence a comfort in the bustling atmosphere of the grand banquet. "Lord Tyrion," Olenna greeted him with a smirk, her sharp wit glinting like a dagger. "Ah, look how splendidly this day unfolds! You would've had me cut it down to size."
Olenna turned her attention back to Sansa, her expression softening. "I trust your husband will be more willing to open his coin purse when you return to Casterly Rock, my lady. Perhaps his coffers can even stretch to a visit to Highgarden. Now that peace has graced our lands and all seems right with the world, it would do you good to see a bit of it."
Sansa offered Olenna a wide smile, her heart warmed by the thought of a trip to the verdant beauty of Highgarden. The prospect of exploring its gardens, filled with vibrant blooms and the sweet scent of honeysuckle, ignited a flicker of hope within her. But as quickly as it came, that hope dimmed, overshadowed by the weight of her circumstances.
"You are too kind, my lady," Sansa said softly, trying to convey the appreciation she felt for the older woman's support.
Olenna waved a dismissive hand, her sharp gaze flitting to Tyrion before returning to Sansa. "Do not thank me just yet. There is still much to be done before we can relax and enjoy the spoils of victory." With that, she stood, smoothing her gown. "You must excuse me, my dear. It's time I sampled some of this food that I paid for," she added, casting a pointed glance at Tyrion that hinted at their unspoken bond.
Margaery's attention was abruptly drawn back to her husband as he tossed a handful of coins at the musicians with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Very good. Very good! Off you go; you're boring my bride!" he declared, his voice carrying an edge that brooked no argument. The musicians scrambled to gather the scattered coins, their expressions a mix of gratitude and embarrassment, all too aware of the precariousness of their position in the eyes of the king. A few lords chuckled, finding amusement in Joffrey's show of power, but Margaery could only offer a soft, reassuring smile to her husband, hoping to diffuse the tension that hung in the air.
"My love," she said gently, turning her gaze to Joffrey, her voice sweet as honey. "It's time, may I?" She reached out, her hand brushing against his arm, grounding him for a moment amidst the chaos.
Joffrey's face lit up with a beaming smile, and he stood from his seat, puffing out his chest as if the very act of addressing the crowd were a royal decree. "Everyone!" he announced, his voice booming across the grand hall, commanding attention effortlessly. "The Queen would like to say a few words."
Margaery felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach, but she masked it with a serene smile, stepping forward as the gathered crowd quieted. The lavish banquet hall, adorned with colorful banners and overflowing with fine food and drink, seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of her words.
As she stood there, her heart raced at the sight of lords and ladies, knights and nobles from all corners of the realm, their eyes fixed upon her. She inhaled deeply, her mind racing as she searched for the right words that would both charm the crowd and remind them of the power she wielded as queen.
"We are so fortunate to enjoy this marvelous food and drink," She began, her voice resonating with warmth, "Not all among us are so lucky, to thank the gods for bringing the recent war to a just end, King Joffrey has decreed that the leftovers from our feast be given to the poorest in his city."
As she finished speaking, Margaery began to clap, a bright smile lighting up her face. The crowd quickly followed suit, their applause echoing throughout the hall, a wave of approval washing over the gathered nobles. Joffrey's smile widened at the enthusiastic reaction, the pride swelling within him as he basked in the glow of their appreciation.
Margaery could see the shift in the atmosphere, how her words had woven a thread of unity among the guests, and she felt a surge of satisfaction. This was not merely a gesture of goodwill; it was a calculated move that elevated Joffrey's status while also showcasing her own ability to inspire loyalty and admiration. She would ensure that the people of King's Landing remembered this moment, where kindness met royalty, and she would remain at the heart of it all.
Cersei glided toward Margaery, her movements graceful yet commanding, and leaned in to plant a kiss on her cheek before enveloping her in a tight embrace. "You are truly an example to us all," she said, her voice dripping with a mixture of genuine warmth and veiled competition.
"Thank you so much…mother," Margaery replied, the term slipping from her lips with calculated sweetness. While the words were spoken with sincerity, Margaery was acutely aware of the game unfolding between them. She would not allow Cersei to gain any advantage, nor would she let her guard down.
As Cersei stepped back, Margaery maintained a composed smile. Her grandmother Olenna had told her about Lord Tywin's audacious suggestion of a marriage between Cersei and Willas, a plan that had been swiftly quashed by Olenna herself. "I have a different betrothal already arranged for Willas," her grandmother had claimed, a strategic lie to keep Cersei at bay. Olenna would rather see Willas dead than wed to the likes of Cersei Lannister.
Margaery sensed the underlying tension in their exchange, the unspoken rivalry that simmered just beneath the surface. She knew that while Cersei presented a facade of sisterly affection, her true intentions were far more complex. Cersei had always coveted power and influence, and now, with Joffrey as king, she had every intention of tightening her grip on the throne.
But Margaery was no naïve maiden; she had a plan of her own. With a quick glance toward Joffrey, who was still reveling in the adoration of the crowd, she recognized that her own position was secure. She had successfully charmed the king, and with time, she would turn his love into something powerful and enduring.
As she returned her attention to Cersei, Margaery offered a smile that was both charming and resolute. "I hope to make you proud, my queen," she said, infusing her words with genuine determination, determined not to let Cersei overshadow her reign.
Margaery retook her seat, her demeanor polished and inviting as she prepared to greet the next well-wisher. She noticed a familiar figure approaching the head table, and as the woman drew near, Margaery easily recognised her. Lady Brienne of Tarth, with her imposing stature and warrior's poise, approached and gave a proper bow, her gaze respectful yet direct.
"Your grace," Brienne addressed Cersei, then turned her attention to Margaery and Joffrey, saying, "My Queen, My King," in succession, her voice steady.
Margaery stood to greet her, a warm smile spreading across her face. "Lady Brienne," she said, extending her hand, which Brienne took and placed a gentle kiss upon. "It's so good of you to come."
"I am no lady, your grace," Brienne replied, her expression earnest but tinged with a hint of humility.
"Did you just bow?" Cersei asked, an eyebrow arched in disbelief.
"Apologies, your grace. I never did master the curtsey," Brienne admitted, a touch of embarrassment creeping into her voice.
Joffrey, ever keen on asserting his power, stood to greet her. "You're the one who put a sword through Renly Baratheon," he declared, a twisted grin on his lips.
Margaery felt a chill at his words. "That's not true, my love," she said quickly, a protective instinct surging within her. "Brienne had nothing to do with it."
"Shame," Joffrey continued, undeterred. "I would've knighted the man who put an end to that deviant's life."
Both Brienne and Margaery struggled to suppress their reactions, their grief for Renly surfacing momentarily. They had both loved him deeply, albeit in different ways, and the king's flippant dismissal stung more than either of them cared to admit.
"I just wanted to congratulate you both and wish you good fortune," Brienne said, deliberately ignoring Joffrey's comment. "The country has been at war too long. I hope your reign is long and peacefu-."
"Yes, thank you," Joffrey interjected, clearly uninterested in the sentiment of peace.
Brienne, undeterred, pressed on, her tone resolute. "I would also ask your grace if I could be released from your service." She hesitated for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "Robb Stark has asked me to accompany him to the North, and I would like to accept with your blessing. I think it's what he…" she paused, her voice faltering. "It's what I want," she corrected herself, determination flashing in her eyes.
"Of course, my lady," Margaery said, sensing the weight of Brienne's request. "Go in grace. You have my blessing."
Brienne nodded, gratitude softening her features. "Thank you, your grace," she replied, and with a final bow, she returned to her place in the feast.
The feast pressed on, a whirlwind of laughter, music, and merriment. Entertainers flitted between the tables, performing acrobatics and musical numbers to delight the assembled lords and ladies. Margaery found herself caught in the throes of this vibrant celebration, yet her heart grew heavier as the hours stretched on. She made every effort to appear grateful and joyful, a bright smile plastered across her face as she maneuvered through the various greetings and toasts that came her way.
However, the true source of her unease lay in the man at her side. Joffrey, in his element, seemed to thrive on chaos. He terrorized everyone who dared approach their table, making sport of the entertainers, inciting harsh criticism and scorn toward anyone who failed to amuse him. Margaery watched as he turned a jester's simple joke into a painful humiliation, the jester's laughter turning to stammered apologies. With each display of his cruelty, she felt the weight of her task ahead growing heavier. Conquering him would not be as simple as she had once believed.
As the evening wore on, Robb and Roslin Stark approached, drawing Margaery's attention away from Joffrey's latest amusement. Roslin was radiant, her beauty accentuated by the gentle curve of her belly, now well into her seventh moon of pregnancy. The sight of her brought a touch of warmth to Margaery's heart; she admired the young woman's resilience, navigating the treacherous waters of the court while carrying the Stark heir.
"Your Grace," Robb greeted them, his expression earnest as he bowed slightly before Joffrey and Margaery. "Congratulations on your wedding."
"Thank you, my lord," Margaery replied, her smile genuine as she extended her hand to Roslin. "And congratulations to you as well. You are glowing, my lady."
Roslin's cheeks flushed with pleasure as she took Margaery's hand and squeezed it. "Thank you, my queen. I am just eager for the baby to arrive."
Joffrey, feeling overlooked, leaned back in his chair and scoffed. "Yes I'm sure we'll all be grateful when theres more northerns running around.What a lovely addition to the world," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Margaery quickly interjected, her voice sweet yet firm. "A child is a blessing, my love, and Robb and Roslin will make wonderful parents. We should celebrate life, not mock it."
Robb shot her a grateful glance, his eyes filled with appreciation for her attempt to shield them from Joffrey's barbs. "Indeed, my queen. The North has suffered too long, and I hope that my child will bring a new beginning."
"Let us hope for peace, then," Joffrey said, but the way he rolled his eyes suggested he had little interest in such sentiments. "As if that would ever come from your lot."
Margaery felt a tightness in her chest as she observed Robb's demeanor shift ever so slightly. The tension in the air thickened, but Roslin squeezed her husband's hand, grounding him. Margaery marveled at Roslin's calm, recognizing that navigating the treacherous waters of court life was a skill that could serve her well in the days to come.
"Lady Roslin, will you miss court when you return home?" Margaery asked, her voice laced with genuine curiosity as she leaned slightly closer to the couple.
Roslin's eyes sparkled with anticipation. "I am ready to see Winterfell, Your Grace. My place is there with my husband, just as yours is here now with yours." Her words were sincere, yet there was a hint of wistfulness in her tone, as if she longed for the comfort of home even amidst the splendor of the feast.
Joffrey, who had been half-listening, abruptly interjected with a flippant air. "When do you leave?"
"Within the week, Your Grace," Robb replied, a firm yet respectful tone in his voice. "I would like to get to Winterfell with enough time before the babe is born."
"Surely that won't be a comfortable journey," Olenna Tyrell chimed in, her sharp wit slicing through the jovial atmosphere. "Your poor wife, I'd have thought better of you, Robb Stark," she jested, her eyes glimmering with mischief as she surveyed the young couple.
Robb chuckled, his expression lightening as he met Olenna's gaze. "It wouldn't be my first choice, my lady," he said, "But a Stark should be born in Winterfell."
"Ah, a noble sentiment," Margaery interjected, her smile warm and encouraging. "Tell me, Lady Roslin, how do you envision your time in Winterfell? Will you have time for some leisure, or will you be too busy with preparations for your little one?"
Roslin's face lit up at the question, the tension melting away. "I hope to spend time with our people, perhaps even host some small gatherings for our friends in the North. It will be a welcome change from the court." She looked at Robb with a playful glimmer in her eye. "And of course, I expect my husband to join me for some of those gatherings, if he can tear himself away from his duties."
Robb chuckled, the earlier tension dissipating. "I promise to make time for you, my lady. I would never turn down an opportunity to enjoy a peaceful afternoon in the gardens, especially with you by my side."
"I hope we are as blessed as you both are," Margaery said, her voice warm and sincere. "A royal child would be the perfect way to end the war, don't you agree, my love?" She turned to Joffrey, hoping to spark his interest.
"Of course, my love," Joffrey replied, a hint of pride in his tone. Robb and Roslin exchanged their well-wishes before returning to their seats, but Margaery's gaze lingered on them. She noted how Robb kept his hand resting gently on Roslin's back, a gesture that spoke volumes of their bond. There was an unmistakable warmth in their relationship, a genuine love that blossomed like the flowers of Highgarden—something pure and real.
A pang of longing twisted in Margaery's heart as she realized that such affection was a luxury she might never experience with Joffrey. Instead, she was bound to a king whose whims often overshadowed any potential for tenderness. Still, she steeled herself, determined to navigate the complexities of court life and reshape her destiny.
"Quiet!" Joffrey commanded, his voice echoing across the grand hall as he rose from his seat once again. The chatter faded to a hush, and all eyes turned to the young king, whose expression shifted from boredom to something resembling a theatrical fervor. "Clear the floor! There has been far too much frivolity at this royal wedding. This is not just a celebration; it is a moment in history. It is time for all of us to reflect on that history." He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the gathered lords and ladies, ensuring he had their full attention. "My Lords, My Ladies."
As his words hung in the air, a magnificent lion's head positioned in the corner of the stage opened its mouth wide, and to the astonishment of the guests, a troop of dwarves tumbled out. Each was meticulously dressed as a figure from the annals of Westeros—Joffrey himself, Renly Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon, and Balon Greyjoy, all brought to life in this outrageous spectacle.
"Behold!" Joffrey declared, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "I present to you, 'The War of the Four Kings!'"
The dwarves took their places on the stage, striking dramatic poses that mimicked their historical counterparts. The audience, a mix of amusement and disbelief, leaned in closer to catch every detail of this unusual performance. Margaery couldn't help but notice the absurdity of the scene unfolding before them, a comical yet pointed reminder of the brutal reality that had recently enveloped the realm.
The dwarves launched into a series of absurdly exaggerated battle scenes, each performance more ludicrous than the last. They shouted their lines with varying degrees of seriousness; some were comedic quips, while others were delivered with a bravado that made the audience chuckle. The scene was a chaotic yet amusing reflection of the rivalries and ambitions that had defined the recent war.
Margaery observed Cersei, who struggled to stifle her laughter, her lips twitching as she glanced at her son, Tommen, who was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle and giggling uncontrollably at the antics unfolding before him. In contrast, Sansa sat stiffly, her discomfort palpable. She shifted her gaze from Joffrey to the stage, clearly unsettled by the mockery of events that had brought so much pain and suffering to the realm. Margaery could sense Sansa's unease, knowing all too well how recent tragedies weighed heavily on her heart, even amidst the laughter that filled the hall.
Margaery's gaze followed Loras as he abruptly rose from his seat, unable to bear watching the grotesque reenactment of Renly's death. The sight stirred something bitter in her heart. Nearby, Tyrion sat rigid beside Sansa, his anger barely concealed. The use of dwarves in the performance had been a clear and cruel attempt to mock him, and it had succeeded. His jaw tightened as the scene unfolded, humiliation flickering in his eyes, though he said nothing, his fury simmering just beneath the surface. Margaery could see the tension building, knowing that beneath the jest lay real wounds being cruelly exploited.
Joffrey, reveling in the spectacle, pointed at each performer with delight. "Look! See how Renly dances like a fool, and Stannis broods in the corner, ever so serious! And who could forget Balon Greyjoy, the king of the Iron Islands, forever seeking his moment of glory?" His laughter boomed, encouraging the dwarves to exaggerate their movements even further.
Margaery watched stone faced as the dwarf playing Joffrey killed the performer playing Stannis, the king rose to his feet and cheered and most of the audience did the same. Margaery felt sick and as she scanned the faces of the other people at the head table, it was clear a lot of them did too.
"Well fought!" Joffrey called, his voice dripping with arrogance as he offered a small red bag toward the dwarf playing his likeness. "But you are not the true champion yet," Joffrey added with a smirk. "A real champion defeats all his challengers. Surely, there are others here who still dare to question my reign?"
An uncomfortable silence fell over the hall. Margaery could feel the tension rising, the guests shifting awkwardly in their seats, no one daring to meet the king's eyes.
Joffrey's gaze scanned the room, then settled on Tyrion, his smirk widening. "Uncle? What about you? I'm sure they have a spare costume."
Tyrion slowly rose from his seat, his expression calm but his words edged with sharpness. "One taste of battle was quite enough for me, Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor. "Besides, I'm sure my wife would be most grateful if I kept what remains of my face intact."
The hall rippled with uneasy laughter, but Tyrion wasn't finished. He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on Joffrey. "Perhaps you should be the one to fight," Tyrion suggested, a gleam in his eye. "This little performance is but a poor imitation of your own bravery on the field at the Blackwater. I speak as a first-hand witness, after all." He gestured to the stage. "Why not climb down from the high table with your shiny new sword and show everyone how a true king wins his throne?"
The crowd's attention was locked on the exchange, breathless with anticipation. Joffrey's smile faltered, and a faint flush of anger tinged his cheeks, but Tyrion pressed on, unfazed.
"Be careful, though," he added, nodding toward the dwarf playing Stannis. "This one seems quite mad with lust. It would be a shame for the king to lose his virtue mere hours before his wedding night."
The laughter swelled, louder and more genuine this time, rippling through the hall as guests struggled to contain their amusement. Joffrey's face contorted in rage, his eyes narrowing dangerously on Tyrion, but for a fleeting moment, he was at a loss for words, his fury simmering beneath the surface.
The hall fell into a tense silence, everyone watching, holding their breath for the king's next move. Without a word, Joffrey snatched up his goblet and stormed toward his uncle, who had already settled back into his seat beside Sansa. The guests looked on, their unease growing. Joffrey hovered over Tyrion, and in a swift, spiteful motion, he tipped the goblet, emptying its contents over his uncle's head. Wine cascaded down Tyrion's face, soaking his clothes and splattering onto the floor. The entire hall was stunned into stillness.
Joffrey, satisfied with his petty act of humiliation, turned and sauntered back toward his seat, his lips curling into a smug smile. But before he could sit down, Tyrion's calm voice cut through the heavy silence.
"A fine vintage," Tyrion remarked, wiping a streak of wine from his face with his finger. He brought it to his lips and tasted it thoughtfully, before adding with deliberate nonchalance, "What a shame it spilled, Your Grace."
Joffrey froze mid-step, his smile vanishing in an instant. "It didn't spill—" he began, his voice rising in frustration, but Margaery, sensing the dangerous escalation, quickly intervened.
"My love," she called out sweetly, her voice ringing through the hall. "Come back to me. It's time for my father's toast." Her eyes pleaded with him, and the tension in the air shifted slightly as the guests turned their attention toward her, grateful for the distraction.
Joffrey hesitated, torn between his anger and the urge to appear gracious in front of his new queen. But even as he began to relent, his mood darkened again, his gaze flicking back to Tyrion. "But how can I toast without wine?" Joffrey asked, his voice taking on a mocking tone. His eyes gleamed with malice as he turned back toward his uncle. "Uncle, you can be my cupbearer."
Tyrion glanced at Sansa, her face pale and anxious, before addressing Joffrey once more. "I'm sorry, Your Grace," Tyrion said with cool defiance, "but the Lady Sansa and I were about to retire. She's unwell, and we have a long journey ahead of us in the coming days."
Joffrey's expression twisted, his voice rising in fury as he retorted, "How do you think you are to deny me?"
The hall fell deathly silent again, the tension thickening as Joffrey glared down at Tyrion, his hands clenched into fists. For a moment, it seemed as though the king might explode with rage. Margaery's fingers gripped the edge of the table, her breath catching in her throat as she desperately tried to think of something, anything, to calm the situation before it spiraled completely out of control.
"Please, my love," she urged again, her voice soft yet firm, "Let us not sour such a joyous day with bitterness. It is our wedding feast, after all. Let the past rest. There are so many who wish to celebrate with you."
Joffrey's gaze flickered between his uncle, his new queen, and the crowd, which now seemed frozen in collective dread. Slowly, his clenched jaw relaxed, and though the anger still smoldered in his eyes, he took a long breath. With one final look of disdain at Tyrion, he turned back to Margaery, forcing a smile.
"Very well, my queen," Joffrey said, his voice laced with a forced charm that barely concealed the malice simmering beneath. He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. "Let us hear your father's toast."
As he moved back to his seat, the applause from the guests rang hollow in his ears, his mind clearly elsewhere—far from the feast, far from the celebratory atmosphere. His thoughts lingered darkly on the insult that had just been dealt. The venom in his narrowed gaze made one thing clear: Tyrion's defiance would not be forgotten, nor forgiven.
Margaery, still standing at the head of the table, watched with growing unease as Sansa and Tyrion discreetly excused themselves from the remainder of the festivities. Sansa looked pale, her steps hurried as Tyrion guided her away, his expression unreadable. Margaery's heart tightened, torn between relief that they had managed to avoid further conflict and dread at what might follow. The show of calm from her new husband was merely a mask, and she knew all too well that Joffrey's wrath would eventually find an outlet.