The throne room was a sea of jewels, furs, and bright fabrics.
Lords and ladies filled the back of the hall and stood beneath the
high windows, jostling like fishwives on a dock.
The denizens of Joffrey’s court had striven to outdo each
other today. Jalabhar Xho was all in feathers, a plumage so
fantastic and extravagant that he seemed like to take flight. The
High Septon’s crystal crown fired rainbows through the air
every time he moved his head. At the council table, Queen Cersei
shimmered in a cloth-of-gold gown slashed in burgundy velvet, while
beside her Varys fussed and simpered in a lilac brocade. Moon Boy
and Ser Dontos wore new suits of motley, clean as a spring morning.
Even Lady Tanda and her daughters looked pretty in matching gowns
of turquoise silk and vair, and Lord Gyles was coughing into a
square of scarlet silk trimmed with golden lace. King Joffrey sat
above them all, amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. He
was in crimson samite, his black mantle studded with rubies, on his
head his heavy golden crown.
Squirming through a press of knights, squires, and rich
townfolk, Sansa reached the front of the gallery just as a blast of
trumpets announced the entry of Lord Tywin Lannister.
He rode his warhorse down the length of the hall and dismounted
before the Iron Throne. Sansa had never seen such armor; all
burnished red steel, inlaid with golden scrollwork and
ornamentation. His rondels were sunbursts, the roaring lion that
crowned his helm had ruby eyes, and a lioness on each shoulder
fastened a cloth-of-gold cloak so long and heavy that it draped the
hindquarters of his charger. Even the horse’s armor was
gilded, and his bardings were shimmering crimson silk emblazoned
with the lion of Lannister.
The Lord of Casterly Rock made such an impressive figure that it
was a shock when his destrier dropped a load of dung right at the
base of the throne. Joffrey had to step gingerly around it as he
descended to embrace his grandfather and proclaim him Savior of the
City. Sansa covered her mouth to hide a nervous smile.
Joff made a show of asking his grandfather to assume governance
of the realm, and Lord Tywin solemnly accepted the responsibility,
“until Your Grace does come of age.” Then squires
removed his armor and Joff fastened the Hand’s chain of
office around his neck. Lord Tywin took a seat at the council table
beside the queen. After the destrier was led off and his homage
removed, Cersei nodded for the ceremonies to continue.
A fanfare of brazen trumpets greeted each of the heroes as he
stepped between the great oaken doors. Heralds cried his name and
deeds for all to hear, and the noble knights and highborn ladies
cheered as lustily as cutthroats at a cockfight. Pride of place was
given to Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, a once-powerful man
gone to fat, yet still handsome. His sons followed him in; Ser
Loras and his older brother Ser Garlan the Gallant. The three
dressed alike, in green velvet trimmed with sable.
The king descended the throne once more to greet them, a great
honor. He fastened about the throat of each a chain of roses
wrought in soft yellow gold, from which hung a golden disc with the
lion of Lannister picked out in rubies. “The roses support
the lion, as the might of Highgarden supports the realm,”
proclaimed Joffrey. “If there is any boon you would ask of
me, ask and it shall be yours.” And now it comes, thought Sansa.
“Your Grace,” said Ser Loras, “I beg the honor
of serving in your Kingsguard, to defend you against your
enemies.”
Joffrey drew the Knight of Flowers to his feet and kissed him on
his cheek. “Done, brother.”
Lord Tyrell bowed his head. “There is no greater pleasure
than to serve the King’s Grace. If I was deemed worthy to
join your royal council, you would find none more loyal or
true.”
Joff put a hand on Lord Tyrell’s shoulder and kissed him
when he stood. “Your wish is granted.”
Ser Garlan Tyrell, five years senior to Ser Loras, was a taller
bearded version of his more famous younger brother. He was thicker
about the chest and broader at the shoulders, and though his face
was comely enough, he lacked Ser Loras’s startling beauty.
“Your Grace,” Garlan said when the king approached him,
“I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of our House.
She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to
war before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains
innocent. Margaery has heard tales of your wisdom, courage, and
chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech you to send
for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to
mine for all time.”
King Joffrey made a show of looking surprised. “Ser
Garlan, your sister’s beauty is famed throughout the Seven
Kingdoms, but I am promised to another. A king must keep his
word.”
Queen Cersei got to her feet in a rustle of skirts. “Your
Grace, in the judgment of your small council, it would be neither
proper nor wise for you to wed the daughter of a man beheaded for
treason, a girl whose brother is in open rebellion against the
throne even now. Sire, your councillors beg you, for the good of
your realm, set Sansa Stark aside. The Lady Margaery will make you
a far more suitable queen.”
Like a pack of trained dogs, the lords and ladies in the hall
began to shout their pleasure. “Margaery,” they called.
“Give us Margaery!” and “No traitor queens!
Tyrell! Tyrell!”
Joffrey raised a hand. “I would like to heed the wishes of
my people, Mother, but I took a holy vow.”
The High Septon stepped forward. “Your Grace, the gods
hold bethrothal solemn, but your father, King Robert of blessed
memory, made this pact before the Starks of Winterfell had revealed
their falseness. Their crimes against the realm have freed you from
any promise you might have made. So far as the Faith is concerned,
there is no valid marriage contract ’twixt you and Sansa
Stark.”
A tumult of cheering filled the throne room, and cries of
“Margaery, Margaery” erupted all around her. Sansa
leaned forward, her hands tight around the gallery’s wooden
rail. She knew what came next, but she was still frightened of what
Joffrey might say, afraid that he would refuse to release her even
now, when his whole kingdom depended upon it. She felt as if she
were back again on the marble steps outside the Great Sept of
Baelor, waiting for her prince to grant her father mercy, and
instead hearing him command Ilyn Payne to strike off his head.
Please, she prayed fervently, make him say it, make him say it.
Lord Tywin was looking at his grandson. Joff gave him a sullen
glance, shifted his feet, and helped Ser Garlan Tyrell to rise.
“The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. I will wed
your sweet sister, and gladly, ser.” He kissed Ser Garlan on
a bearded cheek as the cheers rose all around them.
Sansa felt curiously light-headed. I am free. She could feel
eyes upon her. I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen
had warned her; no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed
the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son
humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes. But if I’m not to be queen, what will become
of me?”
“That will need to be determined. For the moment, you
shall remain here at court, as our ward.”
“I want to go home.”
The queen was irritated by that. “You should have learned
by now, none of us get the things we want.” I have, though, Sansa thought. I am free of Joffrey. I will not
have to kiss him, nor give him my maidenhood, nor bear him
children. Let Margaery Tyrell have all that, poor girl.
By the time the outburst died down, the Lord of Highgarden had
been seated at the council table, and his sons had joined the other
knights and lordlings beneath the windows. Sansa tried to look
forlorn and abandoned as other heroes of the Battle of the
Blackwater were summoned forth to receive their rewards.
Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, marched down the length of
the hall flanked by his twin sons Horror and Slobber, the former
limping from a wound taken in the battle. After them followed Lord
Mathis Rowan in a snowy doublet with a great tree worked upon the
breast in gold thread; Lord Randyll Tarly, lean and balding, a
greatsword across his back in a jeweled scabbard; Ser Kevan
Lannister, a thickset balding man with a close-trimmed beard; Ser
Addam Marbrand, coppery hair streaming to his shoulders; the great
western lords Lydden, Crakehall, and Brax.
Next came four of lesser birth who had distinguished themselves
in the fighting: the one-eyed knight Ser Philip Foote, who had
slain Lord Bryce Caron in single combat; the freerider Lothor
Brune, who’d cut his way through half a hundred Fossoway
men-at-arms to capture Ser Jon of the green apple and kill Ser
Bryan and Ser Edwyd of the red, thereby winning himself the name
Lothor Apple-Eater; Willit, a grizzled man-atarms in the service of
Ser Harys Swyft, who’d pulled his master from beneath his
dying horse and defended him against a dozen attackers; and a
downy-cheeked squire named Josmyn Peckledon, who had killed two
knights, wounded a third, and captured two more, though he could
not have been more than fourteen. Willit was borne in on a litter,
so grievous were his wounds.
Ser Kevan had taken a seat beside his brother Lord Tywin. When
the heralds had finished telling of each hero’s deeds, he
rose. “It is His Grace’s wish that these good men be
rewarded for their valor. By his decree, Ser Philip shall
henceforth be Lord Philip of House Foote, and to him shall go all
the lands, rights, and incomes of House Caron. Lothor Brune to be
raised to the estate of knighthood, and granted land and keep in
the riverlands at war’s end. To Josmyn Peckledon, a sword and
suit of plate, his choice of any warhorse in the royal stables, and
knighthood as soon as he shall come of age. And lastly, for Goodman
Willit, a spear with a silver-banded haft, a hauberk of new-forged
ringmail, and a full helm with visor. Further, the goodman’s
sons shall be taken into the service of House Lannister at Casterly
Rock, the elder as a squire and the younger as a page, with the
chance to advance to knighthood if they serve loyally and well. To
all this, the King’s Hand and the small council
consent.”
The captains of the king’s warships Wildwind, Prince
Aemon, and River Arrow were honored next, along with some under
officers from Godsgrace, Lance, Lady of Silk, and Ramshead. As near
as Sansa could tell, their chief accomplishment had been surviving
the battle on the river, a feat that few enough could boast.
Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’
Guild received the king’s thanks as well, and Hallyne was
raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands
nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more
a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was
granted to Ser Lancel Lannister. Joffrey awarded him the lands,
castle, and rights of House Darry, whose last child lord had
perished during the fighting in the riverlands, “leaving no
trueborn heirs of lawful Darry blood, but only a bastard
cousin.”
Ser Lancel did not appear to accept the title; the talk was, his
wound might cost him his arm or even his life. The Imp was said to
be dying as well, from a terrible cut to the head.
When the herald called, “Lord Petyr Baelish,” he
came forth dressed all in shades of rose and plum, his cloak
patterned with mockingbirds. She could see him smiling as he knelt
before the Iron Throne. He looks so pleased. Sansa had not heard of
Littlefinger doing anything especially heroic during the battle,
but it seemed he was to be rewarded all the same.
Ser Kevan got back to his feet. “It is the wish of the
King’s Grace that his loyal councillor Petyr Baelish be
rewarded for faithful service to crown and realm. Be it known that
Lord Baelish is granted the castle of Harrenhal with all its
attendant lands and incomes, there to make his seat and rule
henceforth as Lord Paramount of the Trident. Petyr Baelish and his
sons and grandsons shall hold and enjoy these honors until the end
of time, and all the lords of the Trident shall do him homage as
their rightful liege. The King’s Hand and the small council
consent.”
On his knees, Littlefinger raised his eyes to King Joffrey.
“I thank you humbly, Your Grace. I suppose this means
I’ll need to see about getting some sons and
grandsons.”
Joffrey laughed, and the court with him. Lord Paramount of the
Trident, Sansa thought, and Lord of Harrenhal as well. She did not
understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as
empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was
cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it
at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to
Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would
never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to.
Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down
and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself
she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll
beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.
More than six hundred new knights were made that day. They had
held their vigil in the Great Sept of Baelor all through the night
and crossed the city barefoot that morning to prove their humble
hearts. Now they came forward dressed in shifts of undyed wool to
receive their knighthoods from the Kingsguard. It took a long time,
since only three of the Brothers of the White Sword were on hand to
dub them. Mandon Moore had perished in the battle, the Hound had
vanished, Aerys Oakheart was in Dorne with Princess Myrcella, and
Jaime Lannister was Robb’s captive, so the Kingsguard had
been reduced to Balon Swann, Meryn Trant, and Osmund Kettleblack.
Once knighted, each man rose, buckled on his swordbelt, and stood
beneath the windows. Some had bloody feet from their walk through
the city, but they stood tall and proud all the same, it seemed to
Sansa.
By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the
hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of
those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the
notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the
king’s leave. Judging by the way he was fidgeting atop the
Iron Throne, Joff would willingly have granted it, but the
day’s work was far from done. For now the coin was turned
over, and the captives were ushered in.
There were great lords and noble knights in that company too:
sour old Lord Celtigar, the Red Crab; Ser Bonifer the Good; Lord
Estermont, more ancient even than Celtigar; Lord Varner, who
hobbled the length of the hall on a shattered knee, but would
accept no help; Ser Mark Mullendore, grey-faced, his left arm gone
to the elbow; fierce Red Ronnet of Griffin Roost; Ser Dermot of the
Rainwood; Lord Willurn and his sons Josua and Elyas; Ser Jon
Fossoway; Ser Timon the Scrapesword; Aurane, the bastard of
Driftmark; Lord Staedmon, called Pennylover; hundreds of
others.
Those who had changed their allegiance during the battle needed
only to swear fealty to Joffrey, but the ones who had fought for
Stannis until the bitter end were compelled to speak. Their words
decided their fate. If they begged forgiveness for their treasons
and promised to serve loyally henceforth, Joffrey welcomed them
back into the king’s peace and restored them to all their
lands and rights. A handful remained defiant, however. “Do
not imagine this is done, boy,” warned one, the bastard son
of some Florent or other. “The Lord of Light protects King
Stannis, now and always. All your swords and all your scheming
shall not save you when his hour comes.”
“Your hour is come right now.” Joffrey beckoned to
Ser Ilyn Payne to take the man out and strike his head off. But no
sooner had that one been dragged away than a knight of solemn mien
with a fiery heart on his surcoat shouted out, “Stannis is
the true king! A monster sits the Iron Throne, an abomination born
of incest!”
“Be silent,” Ser Kevan Lannister bellowed.
The knight raised his voice instead. “Joffrey is the black
worm eating the heart of the realm! Darkness was his father, and
death his mother! Destroy him before he corrupts you all! Destroy
them all, queen whore and king worm, vile dwarf and whispering
spider, the false flowers. Save yourselves!” One of the gold
cloaks knocked the man off his feet, but he continued to shout.
“The scouring fire will come! King Stannis will return!
“
Joffrey lurched to his feet. “I’m king! Kill him!
Kill him now! I command it.” He chopped down with his hand, a
furious, angry gesture . . . and screeched in
pain when his arm brushed against one of the sharp metal fangs that
surrounded him. The bright crimson samite of his sleeve turned a
darker shade of red as his blood soaked through it.
“Mother!” he wailed.
With every eye on the king, somehow the man on the floor wrested
a spear away from one of the gold cloaks, and used it to push
himself back to his feet. “The throne denies him!” he
cried. “He is no king!”
Cersei was running toward the throne, but Lord Tywin remained
still as stone. He had only to raise a finger, and Ser Meryn Trant
moved forward with drawn sword. The end was quick and brutal. The
gold cloaks seized the knight by the arms. “No king!”
he cried again as Ser Meryn drove the point of his longsword
through his chest.
Joff fell into his mother’s arms. Three maesters came
hurrying forward, to bundle him out through the king’s door.
Then everyone began talking at once. When the gold cloaks dragged
off the dead man, he left a trail of bright blood across the stone
floor. Lord Baelish stroked his beard while Varys whispered in his
ear. Will they dismiss us now? Sansa wondered. A score of captives
still waited, though whether to pledge fealty or shout curses, who
could say?
Lord Tywin rose to his feet. “We continue,” he said
in a clear strong voice that silenced the murmurs. “Those who
wish to ask pardon for their treasons may do so. We will have no
more follies.” He moved to the Iron Throne and there seated
himself on a step, a mere three feet off the floor.
The light outside the windows was fading by the time the session
drew to a close. Sansa felt limp with exhaustion as she made her
way down from the gallery. She wondered how badly Joffrey had cut
himself. They say the Iron Throne can be perilous cruel to those
who were not meant to sit it.
Back in the safety of her own chambers, she hugged a pillow to
her face to muffle a squeal of joy. Oh, gods be good, he did it, he
put me aside in front of everyone. When a serving girl brought her
supper, she almost kissed her. There was hot bread and
fresh-churned butter, a thick beef soup, capon and carrots, and
peaches in honey. Even the food tastes sweeter, she thought.
Come dark, she slipped into a cloak and left for the godswood.
Ser Osmund Kettleblack was guarding the drawbridge in his white
armor. Sansa tried her best to sound miserable as she bid him a
good evening. From the way he leered at her, she was not sure she
had been wholly convincing.
Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so
sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you
heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me,
he’s . . . ”
He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do
not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely
begun.”
Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”
“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too
valuable a hostage. And
Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If
he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be
bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn
sons.”
“No,” Sansa said, shocked. “He let me go,
he . . . ”
Ser Dontos planted a slobbery kiss on her ear. “Be brave.
I swore to see you home, and now I can. The day has been
chosen.”
“When?” Sansa asked. “When will we
go?”
“The night of Joffrey’s wedding. After the feast.
All the necessary arrangements have been made. The Red Keep will be
full of strangers. Half the court will be drunk and the other half
will be helping Joffrey bed his bride. For a little while, you will
be forgotten, and the confusion will be our friend.”
“The wedding won’t be for a moon’s turn yet.
Margaery Tyrell is at Highgarden, they’ve only now sent for
her.”
“You’ve waited so long, be patient awhile longer.
Here, I have something for you.” Ser Dontos fumbled in his
pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his
thick fingers. It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands
so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath
of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set
wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight.
“What stones are these?”
“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true
purple by daylight.”
“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It
is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.
“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic,
you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your
father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again.
“It’s home.”
The throne room was a sea of jewels, furs, and bright fabrics.
Lords and ladies filled the back of the hall and stood beneath the
high windows, jostling like fishwives on a dock.
The denizens of Joffrey’s court had striven to outdo each
other today. Jalabhar Xho was all in feathers, a plumage so
fantastic and extravagant that he seemed like to take flight. The
High Septon’s crystal crown fired rainbows through the air
every time he moved his head. At the council table, Queen Cersei
shimmered in a cloth-of-gold gown slashed in burgundy velvet, while
beside her Varys fussed and simpered in a lilac brocade. Moon Boy
and Ser Dontos wore new suits of motley, clean as a spring morning.
Even Lady Tanda and her daughters looked pretty in matching gowns
of turquoise silk and vair, and Lord Gyles was coughing into a
square of scarlet silk trimmed with golden lace. King Joffrey sat
above them all, amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. He
was in crimson samite, his black mantle studded with rubies, on his
head his heavy golden crown.
Squirming through a press of knights, squires, and rich
townfolk, Sansa reached the front of the gallery just as a blast of
trumpets announced the entry of Lord Tywin Lannister.
He rode his warhorse down the length of the hall and dismounted
before the Iron Throne. Sansa had never seen such armor; all
burnished red steel, inlaid with golden scrollwork and
ornamentation. His rondels were sunbursts, the roaring lion that
crowned his helm had ruby eyes, and a lioness on each shoulder
fastened a cloth-of-gold cloak so long and heavy that it draped the
hindquarters of his charger. Even the horse’s armor was
gilded, and his bardings were shimmering crimson silk emblazoned
with the lion of Lannister.
The Lord of Casterly Rock made such an impressive figure that it
was a shock when his destrier dropped a load of dung right at the
base of the throne. Joffrey had to step gingerly around it as he
descended to embrace his grandfather and proclaim him Savior of the
City. Sansa covered her mouth to hide a nervous smile.
Joff made a show of asking his grandfather to assume governance
of the realm, and Lord Tywin solemnly accepted the responsibility,
“until Your Grace does come of age.” Then squires
removed his armor and Joff fastened the Hand’s chain of
office around his neck. Lord Tywin took a seat at the council table
beside the queen. After the destrier was led off and his homage
removed, Cersei nodded for the ceremonies to continue.
A fanfare of brazen trumpets greeted each of the heroes as he
stepped between the great oaken doors. Heralds cried his name and
deeds for all to hear, and the noble knights and highborn ladies
cheered as lustily as cutthroats at a cockfight. Pride of place was
given to Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, a once-powerful man
gone to fat, yet still handsome. His sons followed him in; Ser
Loras and his older brother Ser Garlan the Gallant. The three
dressed alike, in green velvet trimmed with sable.
The king descended the throne once more to greet them, a great
honor. He fastened about the throat of each a chain of roses
wrought in soft yellow gold, from which hung a golden disc with the
lion of Lannister picked out in rubies. “The roses support
the lion, as the might of Highgarden supports the realm,”
proclaimed Joffrey. “If there is any boon you would ask of
me, ask and it shall be yours.” And now it comes, thought Sansa.
“Your Grace,” said Ser Loras, “I beg the honor
of serving in your Kingsguard, to defend you against your
enemies.”
Joffrey drew the Knight of Flowers to his feet and kissed him on
his cheek. “Done, brother.”
Lord Tyrell bowed his head. “There is no greater pleasure
than to serve the King’s Grace. If I was deemed worthy to
join your royal council, you would find none more loyal or
true.”
Joff put a hand on Lord Tyrell’s shoulder and kissed him
when he stood. “Your wish is granted.”
Ser Garlan Tyrell, five years senior to Ser Loras, was a taller
bearded version of his more famous younger brother. He was thicker
about the chest and broader at the shoulders, and though his face
was comely enough, he lacked Ser Loras’s startling beauty.
“Your Grace,” Garlan said when the king approached him,
“I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of our House.
She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to
war before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains
innocent. Margaery has heard tales of your wisdom, courage, and
chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech you to send
for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to
mine for all time.”
King Joffrey made a show of looking surprised. “Ser
Garlan, your sister’s beauty is famed throughout the Seven
Kingdoms, but I am promised to another. A king must keep his
word.”
Queen Cersei got to her feet in a rustle of skirts. “Your
Grace, in the judgment of your small council, it would be neither
proper nor wise for you to wed the daughter of a man beheaded for
treason, a girl whose brother is in open rebellion against the
throne even now. Sire, your councillors beg you, for the good of
your realm, set Sansa Stark aside. The Lady Margaery will make you
a far more suitable queen.”
Like a pack of trained dogs, the lords and ladies in the hall
began to shout their pleasure. “Margaery,” they called.
“Give us Margaery!” and “No traitor queens!
Tyrell! Tyrell!”
Joffrey raised a hand. “I would like to heed the wishes of
my people, Mother, but I took a holy vow.”
The High Septon stepped forward. “Your Grace, the gods
hold bethrothal solemn, but your father, King Robert of blessed
memory, made this pact before the Starks of Winterfell had revealed
their falseness. Their crimes against the realm have freed you from
any promise you might have made. So far as the Faith is concerned,
there is no valid marriage contract ’twixt you and Sansa
Stark.”
A tumult of cheering filled the throne room, and cries of
“Margaery, Margaery” erupted all around her. Sansa
leaned forward, her hands tight around the gallery’s wooden
rail. She knew what came next, but she was still frightened of what
Joffrey might say, afraid that he would refuse to release her even
now, when his whole kingdom depended upon it. She felt as if she
were back again on the marble steps outside the Great Sept of
Baelor, waiting for her prince to grant her father mercy, and
instead hearing him command Ilyn Payne to strike off his head.
Please, she prayed fervently, make him say it, make him say it.
Lord Tywin was looking at his grandson. Joff gave him a sullen
glance, shifted his feet, and helped Ser Garlan Tyrell to rise.
“The gods are good. I am free to heed my heart. I will wed
your sweet sister, and gladly, ser.” He kissed Ser Garlan on
a bearded cheek as the cheers rose all around them.
Sansa felt curiously light-headed. I am free. She could feel
eyes upon her. I must not smile, she reminded herself. The queen
had warned her; no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed
the world must look distraught. “I will not have my son
humiliated,” Cersei said. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes. But if I’m not to be queen, what will become
of me?”
“That will need to be determined. For the moment, you
shall remain here at court, as our ward.”
“I want to go home.”
The queen was irritated by that. “You should have learned
by now, none of us get the things we want.” I have, though, Sansa thought. I am free of Joffrey. I will not
have to kiss him, nor give him my maidenhood, nor bear him
children. Let Margaery Tyrell have all that, poor girl.
By the time the outburst died down, the Lord of Highgarden had
been seated at the council table, and his sons had joined the other
knights and lordlings beneath the windows. Sansa tried to look
forlorn and abandoned as other heroes of the Battle of the
Blackwater were summoned forth to receive their rewards.
Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, marched down the length of
the hall flanked by his twin sons Horror and Slobber, the former
limping from a wound taken in the battle. After them followed Lord
Mathis Rowan in a snowy doublet with a great tree worked upon the
breast in gold thread; Lord Randyll Tarly, lean and balding, a
greatsword across his back in a jeweled scabbard; Ser Kevan
Lannister, a thickset balding man with a close-trimmed beard; Ser
Addam Marbrand, coppery hair streaming to his shoulders; the great
western lords Lydden, Crakehall, and Brax.
Next came four of lesser birth who had distinguished themselves
in the fighting: the one-eyed knight Ser Philip Foote, who had
slain Lord Bryce Caron in single combat; the freerider Lothor
Brune, who’d cut his way through half a hundred Fossoway
men-at-arms to capture Ser Jon of the green apple and kill Ser
Bryan and Ser Edwyd of the red, thereby winning himself the name
Lothor Apple-Eater; Willit, a grizzled man-atarms in the service of
Ser Harys Swyft, who’d pulled his master from beneath his
dying horse and defended him against a dozen attackers; and a
downy-cheeked squire named Josmyn Peckledon, who had killed two
knights, wounded a third, and captured two more, though he could
not have been more than fourteen. Willit was borne in on a litter,
so grievous were his wounds.
Ser Kevan had taken a seat beside his brother Lord Tywin. When
the heralds had finished telling of each hero’s deeds, he
rose. “It is His Grace’s wish that these good men be
rewarded for their valor. By his decree, Ser Philip shall
henceforth be Lord Philip of House Foote, and to him shall go all
the lands, rights, and incomes of House Caron. Lothor Brune to be
raised to the estate of knighthood, and granted land and keep in
the riverlands at war’s end. To Josmyn Peckledon, a sword and
suit of plate, his choice of any warhorse in the royal stables, and
knighthood as soon as he shall come of age. And lastly, for Goodman
Willit, a spear with a silver-banded haft, a hauberk of new-forged
ringmail, and a full helm with visor. Further, the goodman’s
sons shall be taken into the service of House Lannister at Casterly
Rock, the elder as a squire and the younger as a page, with the
chance to advance to knighthood if they serve loyally and well. To
all this, the King’s Hand and the small council
consent.”
The captains of the king’s warships Wildwind, Prince
Aemon, and River Arrow were honored next, along with some under
officers from Godsgrace, Lance, Lady of Silk, and Ramshead. As near
as Sansa could tell, their chief accomplishment had been surviving
the battle on the river, a feat that few enough could boast.
Hallyne the Pyromancer and the masters of the Alchemists’
Guild received the king’s thanks as well, and Hallyne was
raised to the style of lord, though Sansa noted that neither lands
nor castle accompanied the title, which made the alchemist no more
a true lord than Varys was. A more significant lordship by far was
granted to Ser Lancel Lannister. Joffrey awarded him the lands,
castle, and rights of House Darry, whose last child lord had
perished during the fighting in the riverlands, “leaving no
trueborn heirs of lawful Darry blood, but only a bastard
cousin.”
Ser Lancel did not appear to accept the title; the talk was, his
wound might cost him his arm or even his life. The Imp was said to
be dying as well, from a terrible cut to the head.
When the herald called, “Lord Petyr Baelish,” he
came forth dressed all in shades of rose and plum, his cloak
patterned with mockingbirds. She could see him smiling as he knelt
before the Iron Throne. He looks so pleased. Sansa had not heard of
Littlefinger doing anything especially heroic during the battle,
but it seemed he was to be rewarded all the same.
Ser Kevan got back to his feet. “It is the wish of the
King’s Grace that his loyal councillor Petyr Baelish be
rewarded for faithful service to crown and realm. Be it known that
Lord Baelish is granted the castle of Harrenhal with all its
attendant lands and incomes, there to make his seat and rule
henceforth as Lord Paramount of the Trident. Petyr Baelish and his
sons and grandsons shall hold and enjoy these honors until the end
of time, and all the lords of the Trident shall do him homage as
their rightful liege. The King’s Hand and the small council
consent.”
On his knees, Littlefinger raised his eyes to King Joffrey.
“I thank you humbly, Your Grace. I suppose this means
I’ll need to see about getting some sons and
grandsons.”
Joffrey laughed, and the court with him. Lord Paramount of the
Trident, Sansa thought, and Lord of Harrenhal as well. She did not
understand why that should make him so happy; the honors were as
empty as the title granted to Hallyne the Pyromancer. Harrenhal was
cursed, everyone knew that, and the Lannisters did not even hold it
at present. Besides, the lords of the Trident were sworn to
Riverrun and House Tully, and to the King in the North; they would
never accept Littlefinger as their liege. Unless they are made to.
Unless my brother and my uncle and my grandfather are all cast down
and killed. The thought made Sansa anxious, but she told herself
she was being silly. Robb has beaten them every time. He’ll
beat Lord Baelish too, if he must.
More than six hundred new knights were made that day. They had
held their vigil in the Great Sept of Baelor all through the night
and crossed the city barefoot that morning to prove their humble
hearts. Now they came forward dressed in shifts of undyed wool to
receive their knighthoods from the Kingsguard. It took a long time,
since only three of the Brothers of the White Sword were on hand to
dub them. Mandon Moore had perished in the battle, the Hound had
vanished, Aerys Oakheart was in Dorne with Princess Myrcella, and
Jaime Lannister was Robb’s captive, so the Kingsguard had
been reduced to Balon Swann, Meryn Trant, and Osmund Kettleblack.
Once knighted, each man rose, buckled on his swordbelt, and stood
beneath the windows. Some had bloody feet from their walk through
the city, but they stood tall and proud all the same, it seemed to
Sansa.
By the time all the new knights had been given their sers the
hall was growing restive, and none more so than Joffrey. Some of
those in the gallery had begun to slip quietly away, but the
notables on the floor were trapped, unable to depart without the
king’s leave. Judging by the way he was fidgeting atop the
Iron Throne, Joff would willingly have granted it, but the
day’s work was far from done. For now the coin was turned
over, and the captives were ushered in.
There were great lords and noble knights in that company too:
sour old Lord Celtigar, the Red Crab; Ser Bonifer the Good; Lord
Estermont, more ancient even than Celtigar; Lord Varner, who
hobbled the length of the hall on a shattered knee, but would
accept no help; Ser Mark Mullendore, grey-faced, his left arm gone
to the elbow; fierce Red Ronnet of Griffin Roost; Ser Dermot of the
Rainwood; Lord Willurn and his sons Josua and Elyas; Ser Jon
Fossoway; Ser Timon the Scrapesword; Aurane, the bastard of
Driftmark; Lord Staedmon, called Pennylover; hundreds of
others.
Those who had changed their allegiance during the battle needed
only to swear fealty to Joffrey, but the ones who had fought for
Stannis until the bitter end were compelled to speak. Their words
decided their fate. If they begged forgiveness for their treasons
and promised to serve loyally henceforth, Joffrey welcomed them
back into the king’s peace and restored them to all their
lands and rights. A handful remained defiant, however. “Do
not imagine this is done, boy,” warned one, the bastard son
of some Florent or other. “The Lord of Light protects King
Stannis, now and always. All your swords and all your scheming
shall not save you when his hour comes.”
“Your hour is come right now.” Joffrey beckoned to
Ser Ilyn Payne to take the man out and strike his head off. But no
sooner had that one been dragged away than a knight of solemn mien
with a fiery heart on his surcoat shouted out, “Stannis is
the true king! A monster sits the Iron Throne, an abomination born
of incest!”
“Be silent,” Ser Kevan Lannister bellowed.
The knight raised his voice instead. “Joffrey is the black
worm eating the heart of the realm! Darkness was his father, and
death his mother! Destroy him before he corrupts you all! Destroy
them all, queen whore and king worm, vile dwarf and whispering
spider, the false flowers. Save yourselves!” One of the gold
cloaks knocked the man off his feet, but he continued to shout.
“The scouring fire will come! King Stannis will return!
“
Joffrey lurched to his feet. “I’m king! Kill him!
Kill him now! I command it.” He chopped down with his hand, a
furious, angry gesture . . . and screeched in
pain when his arm brushed against one of the sharp metal fangs that
surrounded him. The bright crimson samite of his sleeve turned a
darker shade of red as his blood soaked through it.
“Mother!” he wailed.
With every eye on the king, somehow the man on the floor wrested
a spear away from one of the gold cloaks, and used it to push
himself back to his feet. “The throne denies him!” he
cried. “He is no king!”
Cersei was running toward the throne, but Lord Tywin remained
still as stone. He had only to raise a finger, and Ser Meryn Trant
moved forward with drawn sword. The end was quick and brutal. The
gold cloaks seized the knight by the arms. “No king!”
he cried again as Ser Meryn drove the point of his longsword
through his chest.
Joff fell into his mother’s arms. Three maesters came
hurrying forward, to bundle him out through the king’s door.
Then everyone began talking at once. When the gold cloaks dragged
off the dead man, he left a trail of bright blood across the stone
floor. Lord Baelish stroked his beard while Varys whispered in his
ear. Will they dismiss us now? Sansa wondered. A score of captives
still waited, though whether to pledge fealty or shout curses, who
could say?
Lord Tywin rose to his feet. “We continue,” he said
in a clear strong voice that silenced the murmurs. “Those who
wish to ask pardon for their treasons may do so. We will have no
more follies.” He moved to the Iron Throne and there seated
himself on a step, a mere three feet off the floor.
The light outside the windows was fading by the time the session
drew to a close. Sansa felt limp with exhaustion as she made her
way down from the gallery. She wondered how badly Joffrey had cut
himself. They say the Iron Throne can be perilous cruel to those
who were not meant to sit it.
Back in the safety of her own chambers, she hugged a pillow to
her face to muffle a squeal of joy. Oh, gods be good, he did it, he
put me aside in front of everyone. When a serving girl brought her
supper, she almost kissed her. There was hot bread and
fresh-churned butter, a thick beef soup, capon and carrots, and
peaches in honey. Even the food tastes sweeter, she thought.
Come dark, she slipped into a cloak and left for the godswood.
Ser Osmund Kettleblack was guarding the drawbridge in his white
armor. Sansa tried her best to sound miserable as she bid him a
good evening. From the way he leered at her, she was not sure she
had been wholly convincing.
Dontos waited in the leafy moonlight. “Why so
sadface?” Sansa asked him gaily. “You were there, you
heard. Joff put me aside, he’s done with me,
he’s . . . ”
He took her hand. “Oh, Jonquil, my poor Jonquil, you do
not understand. Done with you? They’ve scarcely
begun.”
Her heart sank. “What do you mean?”
“The queen will never let you go, never. You are too
valuable a hostage. And
Joffrey . . . sweetling, he is still king. If
he wants you in his bed, he will have you, only now it will be
bastards he plants in your womb instead of trueborn
sons.”
“No,” Sansa said, shocked. “He let me go,
he . . . ”
Ser Dontos planted a slobbery kiss on her ear. “Be brave.
I swore to see you home, and now I can. The day has been
chosen.”
“When?” Sansa asked. “When will we
go?”
“The night of Joffrey’s wedding. After the feast.
All the necessary arrangements have been made. The Red Keep will be
full of strangers. Half the court will be drunk and the other half
will be helping Joffrey bed his bride. For a little while, you will
be forgotten, and the confusion will be our friend.”
“The wedding won’t be for a moon’s turn yet.
Margaery Tyrell is at Highgarden, they’ve only now sent for
her.”
“You’ve waited so long, be patient awhile longer.
Here, I have something for you.” Ser Dontos fumbled in his
pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his
thick fingers. It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands
so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath
of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set
wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight.
“What stones are these?”
“Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true
purple by daylight.”
“It’s very lovely,” Sansa said, thinking, It
is a ship I need, not a net for my hair.
“Lovelier than you know, sweet child. It’s magic,
you see. It’s justice you hold. It’s vengeance for your
father.” Dontos leaned close and kissed her again.
“It’s home.”