The steward nodded and proceeded swiftly down the corridor. Breathing a sigh of relief, I followed him. Sir Osmund walked at my left, while Sir Tallad and the second steward trailed a few steps behind on the other side.
We descended a flight of stairs, moved along a long passageway, and turned left at the fork. The corridors were richly furnished—granite floors, marble walls, colored stained-glass windows, numerous statues and columns, and grand tapestries adorned every side.
Yet the route left almost no impression on my mind. The murmur of voices grew louder ahead, and with every step I began to tremble—from tension, from the surge of adrenaline, from the anticipation of what awaited me. My heart pounded: boom-boom-boom.
My palms were slick with sweat; I wiped them on my coat and bit my lip decisively. It's all right. Be yourself. Pretend everything's normal. Be confident. Smile independently… I reassured myself. It didn't work.
We passed through tall double doors, and the guards flanking them saluted me with their spears. We entered the Queen's Ballroom—that, as I later learned, was the name of these chambers.
"His Majesty, King Joffrey Baratheon, the First of His Name!" proclaimed the herald the moment I stepped into the hall. Clearly, he had been waiting for this moment.
Everyone rose instantly. The noise vanished as if cut away with a knife. Time froze. Hundreds of faces and eyes turned toward me.
The entire crowd flickered before me in a colorful, dizzy blur: the faces of men and women, lords and ladies—beautiful, bearded, bald, cheerful, sly, preoccupied, attentive, curious—flashed before my eyes like cards in a deck as Robert led me toward my place at the center of the table.
I walked, focusing on one, but very reasonable thought: Just don't stumble. Don't fall right here, under a hundred watchful eyes. That would be something to remember!
In the center of the hall there was an open space among the guests—that was where we went. Robert bowed to the assembled lords and pulled out a chair for me. But before sitting, I had to spend some time greeting relatives and influential figures.
Lord Tywin, Queen Cersei, Lord Kevan, Lord Mace, Tyrion, and others came in turn. Joffrey's memories supplied their names; I greeted them, asked about their health, smiled, and did my best not to say anything unnecessary. They all addressed me with formal courtesy, and I responded in kind.
At last, the ordeal ended, and I was permitted to sit. The others began to take their seats as well.
Cersei—the woman now regarded as the queen mother—sat on my right. Lord Tywin was to my left, and behind him, the corpulent and cheerful Lord Mace, the bride's father.
Cersei lifted her hand gracefully, signaling that breakfast could begin.
The tables were already laid with honey cakes filled with blueberries and nuts, glazed ham, breaded fish, and an assortment of fruits. There was also an unusual Dornish dish, as I later learned—fried onions, cheese, and chopped eggs with very hot peppers.
I tried a cautious bite but didn't eat much; it would surely make me terribly thirsty. And I couldn't drink much. Even though they would poison me at the wedding feast, not now, I couldn't afford to lower my guard.
For the first half hour, I sat on pins and needles. The feast was in full swing. Musicians wandered between the tables, playing lutes, bagpipes, and violins. A rather plump man—perhaps a jester—was fooling around, making faces, singing in a rough voice, and hopping along the central aisle on a stick.
Cersei leaned toward me.
"Are you all right, dear? You look pale today," she said, her rich voice melodious and smooth.
Her beautiful hair was gathered at the nape into a small bun, though most of it fell down her back in a lively, golden cascade. Her flawless face—with its smooth skin, large, attentive emerald eyes, and sensual lips—resembled a marble statue: majestic and cold. Her ample bosom was strikingly accentuated by a thin, exquisitely tailored dress. Looking at her, it was hard to believe she was already thirty-four and the mother of three children.
"I didn't sleep well, Mother," I replied quietly.
She asked a few more questions, frowned—something displeased her—and gently touched my shoulder with her perfectly shaped hand before turning away and leaving me in peace.
I exhaled.
***
Jaime Lannister
Jaime Lannister felt pain where pain should not be—in his severed hand. The palm and fingers that no longer existed ached and throbbed every day, every night. And each time, the pain grew worst around six in the morning, forcing him to wake and tend to the useless stump.
The old, doddering Pycelle droned endlessly about so-called "phantom pains" that afflicted those who had lost limbs. His only remedy was poppy milk.
Qyburn—whom Jaime had come to respect somewhat after the man saved him from gangrene—had said the same and prescribed the same cure.
Pain was half the battle. What warrior hadn't known pain and learned to master it? Everything is familiar and understandable. Such was life.
Far worse was the fact that the damned Vargo Hoat had cut off his right hand—the one Jaime had used to do absolutely everything in the world.
Now he had to learn it all anew with his left: writing, wiping ass, holding a fork and spoon, taking off and put on clothes. And, of course, fighting.