That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had
been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her
Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm
and safe. If only dreaming could make it
so . . .
She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments
would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I
would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon,
Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are
dead but me. She was alone in the world now.
Her lord husband was not beside her, but she was used to that.
Tyrion was a bad sleeper and often rose before the dawn. Usually
she found him in the solar, hunched beside a candle, lost in some
old scroll or leatherbound book. Sometimes the smell of the morning
bread from the ovens took him to the kitchens, and sometimes he
would climb up to the roof garden or wander all alone down
Traitor’s Walk.
She threw back the shutters and shivered as gooseprickles rose
along her arms. There were clouds massing in the eastern sky,
pierced by shafts of sunlight. They look like two huge castles
afloat in the morning sky. Sansa could see their walls of tumbled
stone, their mighty keeps and barbicans. Wispy banners swirled from
atop their towers and reached for the fast-fading stars. The sun
was coming up behind them, and she watched them go from black to
grey to a thousand shades of rose and gold and crimson. Soon the
wind mushed them together, and there was only one castle where
there had been two.
She heard the door open as her maids brought the hot water for
her bath. They were both new to her service; Tyrion said the women
who’d tended to her previously had all been Cersei’s
spies, just as Sansa had always suspected. “Come see,”
she told them. “There’s a castle in the sky.”
They came to have a look. “It’s made of gold.”
Shae had short dark hair and bold eyes. She did all that was asked
of her, but sometimes she gave Sansa the most insolent looks.
“A castle all of gold, there’s a sight I’d like
to see.”
“A castle, is it?” Brella had to squint. “That
tower’s tumbling over, looks like. It’s all ruins, that
is.”
Sansa did not want to hear about falling towers and ruined
castles. She closed the shutters and said, “We are expected
at the queen’s breakfast. Is my lord husband in the
solar?”
“No, m’lady,” said Brella. “I have not
seen him.”
“Might be he went to see his father,” Shae declared.
“Might be the King’s Hand had need of his
counsel.”
Brella gave a sniff. “Lady Sansa, you’ll be wanting
to get into the tub before the water gets too cool.”
Sansa let Shae pull her shift up over her head and climbed into
the big wooden tub. She was tempted to ask for a cup of wine, to
calm her nerves. The wedding was to be at midday in the Great Sept
of Baelor across the city. And come evenfall the feast would be
held in the throne room; a thousand guests and seventy-seven
courses, with singers and jugglers and mummers. But first came
breakfast in the Queen’s Ballroom, for the Lannisters and the
Tyrell men—the Tyrell women would be breaking their fast with
Margaery—and a hundred odd knights and lordlings. They have made
me a Lannister, Sansa thought bitterly.
Brella sent Shae to fetch more hot water while she washed
Sansa’s back. “You are trembling,
m’lady.”
“The water is not hot enough,” Sansa lied.
Her maids were dressing her when Tyrion appeared, Podrick Payne
in tow. “You look lovely, Sansa.” He turned to his
squire. “Pod, be so good as to pour me a cup of
wine.”
“There will be wine at the breakfast, my lord,”
Sansa said.
“There’s wine here. You don’t expect me to
face my sister sober, surely? It’s a new century, my lady.
The three hundredth year since Aegon’s Conquest.” The
dwarf took a cup of red from Podrick and raised it high. “To
Aegon. What a fortunate fellow. Two sisters, two wives, and three
big dragons, what more could a man ask for?” He wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand.
The Imp’s clothing was soiled and unkempt, Sansa noticed;
it looked as though he’d slept in it. “Will you be
changing into fresh garb, my lord? Your new doublet is very
handsome.”
“The doublet is handsome, yes.” Tyrion put the cup
aside. “Come, Pod, let us see if we can find some garments to
make me look less dwarfish. I would not want to shame my lady
wife.”
When the Imp returned a short time later, he was presentable
enough, and even a little taller. Podrick Payne had changed as
well, and looked almost a proper squire for once, although a rather
large red pimple in the fold beside his nose spoiled the effect of
his splendid purple, white, and gold raiment. He is such a timid
boy. Sansa had been wary of Tyrion’s squire at first; he was
a Payne, cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne who had taken her father’s
head off. However, she’d soon come to realize that Pod was as
frightened of her as she was of his cousin. Whenever she spoke to
him, he turned the most alarming shade of red.
“Are purple, gold, and white the colors of House Payne,
Podrick?” she asked him politely.
“No. I mean, yes.” He blushed. “The colors.
Our arms are purple and white chequy, my lady. With gold coins. In
the checks. Purple and white. Both.” He studied her feet.
“There’s a tale behind those coins,” said
Tyrion. “No doubt Pod will confide it to your toes one day.
Just now we are expected at the Queen’s Ballroom, however.
Shall we?”
Sansa was tempted to beg off. I could tell him that my tummy was
upset, or that my moon’s blood had come. She wanted nothing
more than to crawl back in bed and pull the drapes. I must be
brave, like Robb, she told herself, as she took her lord husband
stiffly by the arm.
In the Queen’s Ballroom they broke their fast on
honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, gammon steaks, bacon,
fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs, autumn pears, and a Dornish dish
of onions, cheese, and chopped eggs cooked up with fiery peppers.
“Nothing like a hearty breakfast to whet one’s appetite
for the seventy-seven-course feast to follow,” Tyrion
commented as their plates were filled. There were flagons of milk
and flagons of mead and flagons of a light sweet golden wine to
wash it down. Musicians strolled among the tables, piping and
fluting and fiddling, while Ser Dontos galloped about on his
broomstick horse and Moon Boy made farting sounds with his cheeks
and sang rude songs about the guests.
Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank
several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the
Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth. Otherwise she only
nibbled at the fruit and fish and honeycakes. Every time Joffrey
looked at her, her tummy got so fluttery that she felt as though
she’d swallowed a bat.
When the food had been cleared away, the queen solemnly
presented Joff with the wife’s cloak that he would drape over
Margaery’s shoulders. “It is the cloak I donned when
Robert took me for his queen, the same cloak my mother Lady Joanna
wore when wed to my lord father.” Sansa thought it looked
threadbare, if truth be told, but perhaps because it was so
used.
Then it was time for gifts. It was traditional in the Reach to
give presents to bride and groom on the morning of their wedding;
on the morrow they would receive more presents as a couple, but
today’s tokens were for their separate persons.
From Jalabhar Xho, Joffrey received a great bow of golden wood
and quiver of long arrows fletched with green and scarlet feathers;
from Lady Tanda a pair of supple riding boots; from Ser Kevan a
magnificent red leather jousting saddle; a red gold brooch wrought
in the shape of a scorpion from the Dornishman, Prince Oberyn;
silver spurs from Ser Addam Marbrand; a red silk tourney pavilion
from Lord Mathis Rowan. Lord Paxter Redwyne brought forth a
beautiful wooden model of the war galley of two hundred oars being
built even now on the Arbor. “If it please Your Grace, she
will be called King Joffrey’s Valor,” he said, and Joff
allowed that he was very pleased indeed. “I will make it my
flagship when I sail to Dragonstone to kill my traitor uncle
Stannis,” he said. He plays the gracious king today. Joffrey could be gallant when
it suited him, Sansa knew, but it seemed to suit him less and less.
Indeed, all his courtesy vanished at once when Tyrion presented him
with their own gift: a huge old book called Lives of Four Kings,
bound in leather and gorgeously illuminated. The king leafed
through it with no interest. “And what is this,
Uncle?” A book. Sansa wondered if Joffrey moved those fat wormy lips of
his when he read.
“Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of
Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy,
and Daeron the Good,” her small husband answered.
“A book every king should read, Your Grace,” said
Ser Kevan.
“My father had no time for books.” Joffrey shoved
the tome across the table. “If you read less, Uncle Imp,
perhaps Lady Sansa would have a baby in her belly by now.” He
laughed . . . and when the king laughs, the
court laughs with him. “Don’t be sad, Sansa, once
I’ve gotten Queen Margaery with child I’ll visit your
bedchamber and show my little uncle how it’s done.”
Sansa reddened. She glanced nervously at Tyrion, afraid of what
he might say. This could turn as nasty as the bedding had at their
own feast. But for once the dwarf filled his mouth with wine
instead of words.
Lord Mace Tyrell came forward to present his gift: a golden
chalice three feet tall, with two ornate curved handles and seven
faces glittering with gemstones. “Seven faces for Your
Grace’s seven kingdoms,” the bride’s father
explained. He showed them how each face bore the sigil of one of
the great houses: ruby lion, emerald rose, onyx stag, silver trout,
blue jade falcon, opal sun, and pearl direwolf.
“A splendid cup,” said Joffrey, “but
we’ll need to chip the wolf off and put a squid in its place,
I think.”
Sansa pretended that she had not heard.
“Margaery and I shall drink deep at the feast, good
father.” Joffrey lifted the chalice above his head, for
everyone to admire.
“The damned thing’s as tall as I am,” Tyrion
muttered in a low voice. “Half a chalice and Joff will be
falling down drunk.” Good, she thought. Perhaps he’ll break his neck.
Lord Tywin waited until last to present the king with his own
gift: a longsword. Its scabbard was made of cherrywood, gold, and
oiled red leather, studded with golden lions’ heads. The
lions had ruby eyes, she saw. The ballroom fell silent as Joffrey
unsheathed the blade and thrust the sword above his head. Red and
black ripples in the steel shimmered in the morning light.
“Magnificent,” declared Mathis Rowan.
“A sword to sing of, sire,” said Lord Redwyne.
“A king’s sword,” said Ser Kevan
Lannister.
King Joffrey looked as if he wanted to kill someone right then
and there, he was so excited. He slashed at the air and laughed.
“A great sword must have a great name, my lords! What shall I
call it?”
Sansa remembered Lion’s Tooth, the sword Arya had flung
into the Trident, and Hearteater, the one he’d made her kiss
before the battle. She wondered if he’d want Margaery to kiss
this one.
The guests were shouting out names for the new blade. Joff
dismissed a dozen before he heard one he liked.
“Widow’s Wail!” he cried. “Yes! It shall
make many a widow, too!” He slashed again. “And when I
face my uncle Stannis it will break his magic sword clean in
two.” Joff tried a downcut, forcing Ser Balon Swann to take a
hasty step backward. Laughter rang through the hall at the look on
Ser Balon’s face.
“Have a care, Your Grace,” Ser Addam Marbrand warned
the king. “Valyrian steel is perilously sharp.”
“I remember.” Joffrey brought Widow’s Wail
down in a savage twohanded slice, onto the book that Tyrion had
given him. The heavy leather cover parted at a stroke.
“Sharp! I told you, I am no stranger to Valyrian
steel.” It took him half a dozen further cuts to hack the
thick tome apart, and the boy was breathless by the time he was
done. Sansa could feel her husband struggling with his fury as Ser
Osmund Kettleblack shouted, “I pray you never turn that
wicked edge on me, sire.”
“See that you never give me cause, ser.” Joffrey
flicked a chunk of Lives of Four Kings off the table at swordpoint,
then slid Widow’s Wail back into its scabbard.
“Your Grace,” Ser Garlan Tyrell said. “Perhaps
you did not know. In all of Westeros there were but four copies of
that book illuminated in Kaeth’s own hand.”
“Now there are three.” Joffrey undid his old
swordbelt to don his new one. “You and Lady Sansa owe me a
better present, Uncle Imp. This one is all chopped to
pieces.”
Tyrion was staring at his nephew with his mismatched eyes.
“Perhaps a knife, sire. To match your sword. A dagger of the
same fine Valyrian steel . . . with a
dragonbone hilt, say?”
Joff gave him a sharp look.
“You . . . yes, a dagger to match my
sword, good.” He nodded. “A . . . a
gold hilt with rubies in it. Dragonbone is too plain.”
“As you wish, Your Grace. “ Tyrion drank another cup
of wine. He might have been all alone in his solar for all the
attention he paid Sansa. But when the time came to leave for the
wedding, he took her by the hand.
As they were crossing the yard, Prince Oberyn of Dorne fell in
beside them, his black-haired paramour on his arm. Sansa glanced at
the woman curiously. She was baseborn and unwed, and had borne two
bastard daughters for the prince, but she did not fear to look even
the queen in the eye. Shae had told her that this Ellaria worshiped
some Lysene love goddess. “She was almost a whore when he
found her, m’lady,” her maid confided, “and now
she’s near a princess.” Sansa had never been this close
to the Dornishwoman before. She is not truly beautiful, she
thought, but something about her draws the eye.
“I once had the great good fortune to see the
Citadel’s copy of Lives of Four Kings,” Prince Oberyn
was telling her lord husband. “The illuminations were
wondrous to behold, but Kaeth was too kind by half to King
Viserys.”
Tyrion gave him a sharp look. “Too kind? He scants Viserys
shamefully, in my view. It should have been Lives of Five
Kings.”
The prince laughed. “Viserys hardly reigned a
fortnight.”
“He reigned more than a year,” said Tyrion.
Oberyn gave a shrug. “A year or a fortnight, what does it
matter? He poisoned his own nephew to gain the throne and then did
nothing once he had it.”
“Baelor starved himself to death, fasting,” said
Tyrion. “His uncle served him loyally as Hand, as he had
served the Young Dragon before him. Viserys might only have reigned
a year, but he ruled for fifteen, while Daeron warred and Baelor
prayed.” He made a sour face. “And if he did remove his
nephew, can you blame him? Someone had to save the realm from
Baelor’s follies.”
Sansa was shocked. “But Baelor the Blessed was a great
king. He walked the Boneway barefoot to make peace with Dorne, and
rescued the Dragonknight from a snakepit. The vipers refused to strike him
because he was so pure and holy.”
Prince Oberyn smiled. “If you were a viper, my lady, would
you want to bite a bloodless stick like Baelor the Blessed?
I’d sooner save my fangs for someone
juicier . . . ”
“My prince is playing with you, Lady Sansa,” said
the woman Ellaria Sand. “The septons and singers like to say
that the snakes did not bite Baelor, but the truth is very
different. He was bitten half a hundred times, and should have died
from it.”
“If he had, Viserys would have reigned a dozen
years,” said Tyrion, “and the Seven Kingdoms might have been
better served. Some believe Baelor was deranged by all that
venom.”
“Yes,” said Prince Oberyn, “but I’ve
seen no snakes in this Red Keep of yours. So how do you account for
Joffrey?”
“I prefer not to.” Tyrion inclined his head stiffly.
“If you will excuse us. Our litter awaits.” The dwarf
helped Sansa up inside and clambered awkwardly after her.
“Close the curtains, my lady, if you’d be so
good.”
“Must we, my lord?” Sansa did not want to be shut
behind the curtains. “The day is so lovely.”
“The good people of King’s Landing are like to throw
dung at the litter if they see me inside it. Do us both a kindness,
my lady. Close the curtains. “
She did as he bid her. They sat for a time, as the air grew warm
and stuffy around them. “I was sorry about your book, my
lord,” she made herself say.
“It was Joffrey’s book. He might have learned a
thing or two if he’d read it.” He sounded distracted.
“I should have known better. I should have
seen . . . a good many things.”
“Perhaps the dagger will please him more.”
When the dwarf grimaced, his scar tightened and twisted.
“The boy’s earned himself a dagger, wouldn’t you
say?” Thankfully Tyrion did not wait for her reply.
“Joff quarreled with your brother Robb at Winterfell. Tell
me, was there ill feeling between Bran and His Grace as
well?”
“Bran?” The question confused her. “Before he
fell, you mean?” She had to try and think back. It was all so
long ago. “Bran was a sweet boy. Everyone loved him. He and
Tommen fought with wooden swords, I remember, but just for
play.”
Tyrion lapsed back into moody silence. Sansa heard the distant
clank of chains from outside; the portcullis was being drawn up. A
moment later there was a shout, and their litter swayed into
motion. Deprived of the passing scenery, she chose to stare at her
folded hands, uncomfortably aware of her husand’s mismatched
eyes. Why is he looking at me that way?
“You loved your brothers, much as I love Jaime.” Is this some Lannister trap to make me speak treason? “My
brothers were traitors, and they’ve gone to traitors’
graves. It is treason to love a traitor. “
Her little husband snorted. “Robb rose in arms against his
rightful king. By law, that made him a traitor. The others died too
young to know what treason was.” He rubbed his nose.
“Sansa, do you know what happened to Bran at
Winterfell?”
“Bran fell. He was always climbing things, and finally he
fell. We always feared he would. And Theon Greyjoy killed him, but
that was later.”
“Theon Greyjoy.” Tyrion sighed. “Your lady
mother once accused me . . . well, I will not
burden you with the ugly details. She accused me falsely. I never
harmed your brother Bran. And I mean no harm to you.” What does he want me to say? “That is good to know, my
lord.” He wanted something from her, but Sansa did not know
what it was. He looks like a starving child, but I have no food to
give him. Why won’t he leave me be?
Tyrion rubbed at his scarred, scabby nose yet again, an ugly
habit that drew the eye to his ugly face. “You have never
asked me how Robb died, or your lady mother.”
“I . . . would sooner not know. It
would give me bad dreams.”
“Then I will say no more.”
“That . . . that’s kind of
you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Tyrion. “I am the very soul of
kindness. And I know about bad dreams.”
That was such a sweet dream, Sansa thought drowsily. She had
been back in Winterfell, running through the godswood with her
Lady. Her father had been there, and her brothers, all of them warm
and safe. If only dreaming could make it
so . . .
She threw back the coverlets. I must be brave. Her torments
would soon be ended, one way or the other. If Lady was here, I
would not be afraid. Lady was dead, though; Robb, Bran, Rickon,
Arya, her father, her mother, even Septa Mordane. All of them are
dead but me. She was alone in the world now.
Her lord husband was not beside her, but she was used to that.
Tyrion was a bad sleeper and often rose before the dawn. Usually
she found him in the solar, hunched beside a candle, lost in some
old scroll or leatherbound book. Sometimes the smell of the morning
bread from the ovens took him to the kitchens, and sometimes he
would climb up to the roof garden or wander all alone down
Traitor’s Walk.
She threw back the shutters and shivered as gooseprickles rose
along her arms. There were clouds massing in the eastern sky,
pierced by shafts of sunlight. They look like two huge castles
afloat in the morning sky. Sansa could see their walls of tumbled
stone, their mighty keeps and barbicans. Wispy banners swirled from
atop their towers and reached for the fast-fading stars. The sun
was coming up behind them, and she watched them go from black to
grey to a thousand shades of rose and gold and crimson. Soon the
wind mushed them together, and there was only one castle where
there had been two.
She heard the door open as her maids brought the hot water for
her bath. They were both new to her service; Tyrion said the women
who’d tended to her previously had all been Cersei’s
spies, just as Sansa had always suspected. “Come see,”
she told them. “There’s a castle in the sky.”
They came to have a look. “It’s made of gold.”
Shae had short dark hair and bold eyes. She did all that was asked
of her, but sometimes she gave Sansa the most insolent looks.
“A castle all of gold, there’s a sight I’d like
to see.”
“A castle, is it?” Brella had to squint. “That
tower’s tumbling over, looks like. It’s all ruins, that
is.”
Sansa did not want to hear about falling towers and ruined
castles. She closed the shutters and said, “We are expected
at the queen’s breakfast. Is my lord husband in the
solar?”
“No, m’lady,” said Brella. “I have not
seen him.”
“Might be he went to see his father,” Shae declared.
“Might be the King’s Hand had need of his
counsel.”
Brella gave a sniff. “Lady Sansa, you’ll be wanting
to get into the tub before the water gets too cool.”
Sansa let Shae pull her shift up over her head and climbed into
the big wooden tub. She was tempted to ask for a cup of wine, to
calm her nerves. The wedding was to be at midday in the Great Sept
of Baelor across the city. And come evenfall the feast would be
held in the throne room; a thousand guests and seventy-seven
courses, with singers and jugglers and mummers. But first came
breakfast in the Queen’s Ballroom, for the Lannisters and the
Tyrell men—the Tyrell women would be breaking their fast with
Margaery—and a hundred odd knights and lordlings. They have made
me a Lannister, Sansa thought bitterly.
Brella sent Shae to fetch more hot water while she washed
Sansa’s back. “You are trembling,
m’lady.”
“The water is not hot enough,” Sansa lied.
Her maids were dressing her when Tyrion appeared, Podrick Payne
in tow. “You look lovely, Sansa.” He turned to his
squire. “Pod, be so good as to pour me a cup of
wine.”
“There will be wine at the breakfast, my lord,”
Sansa said.
“There’s wine here. You don’t expect me to
face my sister sober, surely? It’s a new century, my lady.
The three hundredth year since Aegon’s Conquest.” The
dwarf took a cup of red from Podrick and raised it high. “To
Aegon. What a fortunate fellow. Two sisters, two wives, and three
big dragons, what more could a man ask for?” He wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand.
The Imp’s clothing was soiled and unkempt, Sansa noticed;
it looked as though he’d slept in it. “Will you be
changing into fresh garb, my lord? Your new doublet is very
handsome.”
“The doublet is handsome, yes.” Tyrion put the cup
aside. “Come, Pod, let us see if we can find some garments to
make me look less dwarfish. I would not want to shame my lady
wife.”
When the Imp returned a short time later, he was presentable
enough, and even a little taller. Podrick Payne had changed as
well, and looked almost a proper squire for once, although a rather
large red pimple in the fold beside his nose spoiled the effect of
his splendid purple, white, and gold raiment. He is such a timid
boy. Sansa had been wary of Tyrion’s squire at first; he was
a Payne, cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne who had taken her father’s
head off. However, she’d soon come to realize that Pod was as
frightened of her as she was of his cousin. Whenever she spoke to
him, he turned the most alarming shade of red.
“Are purple, gold, and white the colors of House Payne,
Podrick?” she asked him politely.
“No. I mean, yes.” He blushed. “The colors.
Our arms are purple and white chequy, my lady. With gold coins. In
the checks. Purple and white. Both.” He studied her feet.
“There’s a tale behind those coins,” said
Tyrion. “No doubt Pod will confide it to your toes one day.
Just now we are expected at the Queen’s Ballroom, however.
Shall we?”
Sansa was tempted to beg off. I could tell him that my tummy was
upset, or that my moon’s blood had come. She wanted nothing
more than to crawl back in bed and pull the drapes. I must be
brave, like Robb, she told herself, as she took her lord husband
stiffly by the arm.
In the Queen’s Ballroom they broke their fast on
honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, gammon steaks, bacon,
fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs, autumn pears, and a Dornish dish
of onions, cheese, and chopped eggs cooked up with fiery peppers.
“Nothing like a hearty breakfast to whet one’s appetite
for the seventy-seven-course feast to follow,” Tyrion
commented as their plates were filled. There were flagons of milk
and flagons of mead and flagons of a light sweet golden wine to
wash it down. Musicians strolled among the tables, piping and
fluting and fiddling, while Ser Dontos galloped about on his
broomstick horse and Moon Boy made farting sounds with his cheeks
and sang rude songs about the guests.
Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank
several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the
Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth. Otherwise she only
nibbled at the fruit and fish and honeycakes. Every time Joffrey
looked at her, her tummy got so fluttery that she felt as though
she’d swallowed a bat.
When the food had been cleared away, the queen solemnly
presented Joff with the wife’s cloak that he would drape over
Margaery’s shoulders. “It is the cloak I donned when
Robert took me for his queen, the same cloak my mother Lady Joanna
wore when wed to my lord father.” Sansa thought it looked
threadbare, if truth be told, but perhaps because it was so
used.
Then it was time for gifts. It was traditional in the Reach to
give presents to bride and groom on the morning of their wedding;
on the morrow they would receive more presents as a couple, but
today’s tokens were for their separate persons.
From Jalabhar Xho, Joffrey received a great bow of golden wood
and quiver of long arrows fletched with green and scarlet feathers;
from Lady Tanda a pair of supple riding boots; from Ser Kevan a
magnificent red leather jousting saddle; a red gold brooch wrought
in the shape of a scorpion from the Dornishman, Prince Oberyn;
silver spurs from Ser Addam Marbrand; a red silk tourney pavilion
from Lord Mathis Rowan. Lord Paxter Redwyne brought forth a
beautiful wooden model of the war galley of two hundred oars being
built even now on the Arbor. “If it please Your Grace, she
will be called King Joffrey’s Valor,” he said, and Joff
allowed that he was very pleased indeed. “I will make it my
flagship when I sail to Dragonstone to kill my traitor uncle
Stannis,” he said. He plays the gracious king today. Joffrey could be gallant when
it suited him, Sansa knew, but it seemed to suit him less and less.
Indeed, all his courtesy vanished at once when Tyrion presented him
with their own gift: a huge old book called Lives of Four Kings,
bound in leather and gorgeously illuminated. The king leafed
through it with no interest. “And what is this,
Uncle?” A book. Sansa wondered if Joffrey moved those fat wormy lips of
his when he read.
“Grand Maester Kaeth’s history of the reigns of
Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy,
and Daeron the Good,” her small husband answered.
“A book every king should read, Your Grace,” said
Ser Kevan.
“My father had no time for books.” Joffrey shoved
the tome across the table. “If you read less, Uncle Imp,
perhaps Lady Sansa would have a baby in her belly by now.” He
laughed . . . and when the king laughs, the
court laughs with him. “Don’t be sad, Sansa, once
I’ve gotten Queen Margaery with child I’ll visit your
bedchamber and show my little uncle how it’s done.”
Sansa reddened. She glanced nervously at Tyrion, afraid of what
he might say. This could turn as nasty as the bedding had at their
own feast. But for once the dwarf filled his mouth with wine
instead of words.
Lord Mace Tyrell came forward to present his gift: a golden
chalice three feet tall, with two ornate curved handles and seven
faces glittering with gemstones. “Seven faces for Your
Grace’s seven kingdoms,” the bride’s father
explained. He showed them how each face bore the sigil of one of
the great houses: ruby lion, emerald rose, onyx stag, silver trout,
blue jade falcon, opal sun, and pearl direwolf.
“A splendid cup,” said Joffrey, “but
we’ll need to chip the wolf off and put a squid in its place,
I think.”
Sansa pretended that she had not heard.
“Margaery and I shall drink deep at the feast, good
father.” Joffrey lifted the chalice above his head, for
everyone to admire.
“The damned thing’s as tall as I am,” Tyrion
muttered in a low voice. “Half a chalice and Joff will be
falling down drunk.” Good, she thought. Perhaps he’ll break his neck.
Lord Tywin waited until last to present the king with his own
gift: a longsword. Its scabbard was made of cherrywood, gold, and
oiled red leather, studded with golden lions’ heads. The
lions had ruby eyes, she saw. The ballroom fell silent as Joffrey
unsheathed the blade and thrust the sword above his head. Red and
black ripples in the steel shimmered in the morning light.
“Magnificent,” declared Mathis Rowan.
“A sword to sing of, sire,” said Lord Redwyne.
“A king’s sword,” said Ser Kevan
Lannister.
King Joffrey looked as if he wanted to kill someone right then
and there, he was so excited. He slashed at the air and laughed.
“A great sword must have a great name, my lords! What shall I
call it?”
Sansa remembered Lion’s Tooth, the sword Arya had flung
into the Trident, and Hearteater, the one he’d made her kiss
before the battle. She wondered if he’d want Margaery to kiss
this one.
The guests were shouting out names for the new blade. Joff
dismissed a dozen before he heard one he liked.
“Widow’s Wail!” he cried. “Yes! It shall
make many a widow, too!” He slashed again. “And when I
face my uncle Stannis it will break his magic sword clean in
two.” Joff tried a downcut, forcing Ser Balon Swann to take a
hasty step backward. Laughter rang through the hall at the look on
Ser Balon’s face.
“Have a care, Your Grace,” Ser Addam Marbrand warned
the king. “Valyrian steel is perilously sharp.”
“I remember.” Joffrey brought Widow’s Wail
down in a savage twohanded slice, onto the book that Tyrion had
given him. The heavy leather cover parted at a stroke.
“Sharp! I told you, I am no stranger to Valyrian
steel.” It took him half a dozen further cuts to hack the
thick tome apart, and the boy was breathless by the time he was
done. Sansa could feel her husband struggling with his fury as Ser
Osmund Kettleblack shouted, “I pray you never turn that
wicked edge on me, sire.”
“See that you never give me cause, ser.” Joffrey
flicked a chunk of Lives of Four Kings off the table at swordpoint,
then slid Widow’s Wail back into its scabbard.
“Your Grace,” Ser Garlan Tyrell said. “Perhaps
you did not know. In all of Westeros there were but four copies of
that book illuminated in Kaeth’s own hand.”
“Now there are three.” Joffrey undid his old
swordbelt to don his new one. “You and Lady Sansa owe me a
better present, Uncle Imp. This one is all chopped to
pieces.”
Tyrion was staring at his nephew with his mismatched eyes.
“Perhaps a knife, sire. To match your sword. A dagger of the
same fine Valyrian steel . . . with a
dragonbone hilt, say?”
Joff gave him a sharp look.
“You . . . yes, a dagger to match my
sword, good.” He nodded. “A . . . a
gold hilt with rubies in it. Dragonbone is too plain.”
“As you wish, Your Grace. “ Tyrion drank another cup
of wine. He might have been all alone in his solar for all the
attention he paid Sansa. But when the time came to leave for the
wedding, he took her by the hand.
As they were crossing the yard, Prince Oberyn of Dorne fell in
beside them, his black-haired paramour on his arm. Sansa glanced at
the woman curiously. She was baseborn and unwed, and had borne two
bastard daughters for the prince, but she did not fear to look even
the queen in the eye. Shae had told her that this Ellaria worshiped
some Lysene love goddess. “She was almost a whore when he
found her, m’lady,” her maid confided, “and now
she’s near a princess.” Sansa had never been this close
to the Dornishwoman before. She is not truly beautiful, she
thought, but something about her draws the eye.
“I once had the great good fortune to see the
Citadel’s copy of Lives of Four Kings,” Prince Oberyn
was telling her lord husband. “The illuminations were
wondrous to behold, but Kaeth was too kind by half to King
Viserys.”
Tyrion gave him a sharp look. “Too kind? He scants Viserys
shamefully, in my view. It should have been Lives of Five
Kings.”
The prince laughed. “Viserys hardly reigned a
fortnight.”
“He reigned more than a year,” said Tyrion.
Oberyn gave a shrug. “A year or a fortnight, what does it
matter? He poisoned his own nephew to gain the throne and then did
nothing once he had it.”
“Baelor starved himself to death, fasting,” said
Tyrion. “His uncle served him loyally as Hand, as he had
served the Young Dragon before him. Viserys might only have reigned
a year, but he ruled for fifteen, while Daeron warred and Baelor
prayed.” He made a sour face. “And if he did remove his
nephew, can you blame him? Someone had to save the realm from
Baelor’s follies.”
Sansa was shocked. “But Baelor the Blessed was a great
king. He walked the Boneway barefoot to make peace with Dorne, and
rescued the Dragonknight from a snakepit. The vipers refused to strike him
because he was so pure and holy.”
Prince Oberyn smiled. “If you were a viper, my lady, would
you want to bite a bloodless stick like Baelor the Blessed?
I’d sooner save my fangs for someone
juicier . . . ”
“My prince is playing with you, Lady Sansa,” said
the woman Ellaria Sand. “The septons and singers like to say
that the snakes did not bite Baelor, but the truth is very
different. He was bitten half a hundred times, and should have died
from it.”
“If he had, Viserys would have reigned a dozen
years,” said Tyrion, “and the Seven Kingdoms might have been
better served. Some believe Baelor was deranged by all that
venom.”
“Yes,” said Prince Oberyn, “but I’ve
seen no snakes in this Red Keep of yours. So how do you account for
Joffrey?”
“I prefer not to.” Tyrion inclined his head stiffly.
“If you will excuse us. Our litter awaits.” The dwarf
helped Sansa up inside and clambered awkwardly after her.
“Close the curtains, my lady, if you’d be so
good.”
“Must we, my lord?” Sansa did not want to be shut
behind the curtains. “The day is so lovely.”
“The good people of King’s Landing are like to throw
dung at the litter if they see me inside it. Do us both a kindness,
my lady. Close the curtains. “
She did as he bid her. They sat for a time, as the air grew warm
and stuffy around them. “I was sorry about your book, my
lord,” she made herself say.
“It was Joffrey’s book. He might have learned a
thing or two if he’d read it.” He sounded distracted.
“I should have known better. I should have
seen . . . a good many things.”
“Perhaps the dagger will please him more.”
When the dwarf grimaced, his scar tightened and twisted.
“The boy’s earned himself a dagger, wouldn’t you
say?” Thankfully Tyrion did not wait for her reply.
“Joff quarreled with your brother Robb at Winterfell. Tell
me, was there ill feeling between Bran and His Grace as
well?”
“Bran?” The question confused her. “Before he
fell, you mean?” She had to try and think back. It was all so
long ago. “Bran was a sweet boy. Everyone loved him. He and
Tommen fought with wooden swords, I remember, but just for
play.”
Tyrion lapsed back into moody silence. Sansa heard the distant
clank of chains from outside; the portcullis was being drawn up. A
moment later there was a shout, and their litter swayed into
motion. Deprived of the passing scenery, she chose to stare at her
folded hands, uncomfortably aware of her husand’s mismatched
eyes. Why is he looking at me that way?
“You loved your brothers, much as I love Jaime.” Is this some Lannister trap to make me speak treason? “My
brothers were traitors, and they’ve gone to traitors’
graves. It is treason to love a traitor. “
Her little husband snorted. “Robb rose in arms against his
rightful king. By law, that made him a traitor. The others died too
young to know what treason was.” He rubbed his nose.
“Sansa, do you know what happened to Bran at
Winterfell?”
“Bran fell. He was always climbing things, and finally he
fell. We always feared he would. And Theon Greyjoy killed him, but
that was later.”
“Theon Greyjoy.” Tyrion sighed. “Your lady
mother once accused me . . . well, I will not
burden you with the ugly details. She accused me falsely. I never
harmed your brother Bran. And I mean no harm to you.” What does he want me to say? “That is good to know, my
lord.” He wanted something from her, but Sansa did not know
what it was. He looks like a starving child, but I have no food to
give him. Why won’t he leave me be?
Tyrion rubbed at his scarred, scabby nose yet again, an ugly
habit that drew the eye to his ugly face. “You have never
asked me how Robb died, or your lady mother.”
“I . . . would sooner not know. It
would give me bad dreams.”
“Then I will say no more.”
“That . . . that’s kind of
you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Tyrion. “I am the very soul of
kindness. And I know about bad dreams.”