After regaining my composure somewhat, I began to examine the hall. Three large tables stood here. The first was reserved for the king, the great lords, and their relatives. The second accommodated those of lesser nobility, and the third — ordinary knights and representatives of less influential houses. Yet even these men were not so ordinary as they might seem beside the higher nobility. Many of them possessed their own castles, small armies, and steady incomes.
All around me, laughter echoed. The guests praised the royal marriage and did not forget to "dig in" to their breakfast, glancing from time to time toward the main figures of the feast.
Ser Tallad was already seated at one of the tables, surrounded by companions who seemed well acquainted with him, drinking merrily. I frowned — shouldn't he be guarding his king?
To my right, several seats away, sat Tyrion Lannister and his wife, Sansa. I recognized Tyrion at once — a small man with strong hands, golden-blond hair, a scar across his nose, and mismatched eyes — one green, the other black. His gaze was sharp and attentive, gleaming with a touch of irony. Mischief danced in those eyes, and his lips curved into a smile that was equal parts boredom and sarcasm.
Tyrion did not waste time on trifles, emptying cup after cup of wine. Yet the drink did not seem to affect him — his long years of experience were evident. He caught my gaze almost immediately, and when I gave a slight nod, he smiled crookedly after a brief pause and saluted me with his cup. Two massive rings glittered on his fingers.
Behind Tyrion sat Sansa — a graceful, refined young lady with hair the color of autumn leaves. Her skin seemed as delicate as porcelain, smooth and pale. Thin, perfectly arched brows accentuated the blue sparkle of her eyes. Her slender, youthful figure naturally drew the attention of the men nearby. Many likely found her beautiful. But personally, I could not share their admiration.
Sansa sat so straight it looked as though a halberd shaft had been rammed up her ass. And even seated, her tallness was evident; if she kept growing, Tyrion would not be the only one looking up at her. The girl seemed polite, intelligent… and utterly bland.
Of course, the recent horrors had taken their toll. That bastard Joffrey had left deep wounds on her soul — and on her body. The flesh would heal, but the scars within would not fade so easily. That was why she resembled a beautiful yet lifeless mechanical doll.
Sansa regarded me with cold indifference. In the depths of her lovely eyes, I thought I glimpsed a flicker of both disgust and fear.
Another person whom Joffrey had turned into an enemy. I sighed and returned to my breakfast.
Grand Maester Pycelle, though bald and stout, carried himself with grave dignity. His tall, furrowed brow and deliberate movements lent him an air of wisdom. Yet his rare, a patchy beard, failing to conceal a weak, spineless chin, somewhat spoiled the impression. Around his neck hung several chains, each link differing not only in color but in shape. I vaguely recalled that Pycelle was around eighty years old — but he looked quite sprightly for an old man of such venerable age.
I never saw Varys, nor anyone resembling him.
Margaery and her kin — Lady Olenna, Ser Loras, Ser Garlan the Gallant, and several other Tyrell vassals — were also absent from the table. According to Westerosi wedding custom, the bride and groom take their morning meal separately before the ceremony.
To show that this feast symbolized unity, knights of the Reach were present in the hall. Most likely, some Lannister and Crownlands retainers were at that very moment keeping Margaery company elsewhere.
But it was the king's Hand who drew the most attention. Lord Tywin spoke little, comporting himself with quiet authority. Somehow, the entire hall instinctively understood that this was the man who decided everything here — absolutely everything.
One glance at his commanding posture, broad shoulders, lean frame, and the boundless confidence burning in his pale green eyes was enough to reveal his power. Watching him discreetly, I grew increasingly convinced that I was in the presence of an extraordinary man. He stood apart from the rest of the richly dressed crowd, radiating a weight that needed no words.
Joffrey feared him and, in that fear, harbored a poisonous mixture of envy and resentment. Moreover, Tywin was the only man before whom the young king felt truly insecure. And the little wretch secretly hoped his grandfather would not live long enough to continue meddling in the affairs of the realm.
Joffrey despised and mocked Tyrion for his appearance, blind to all his uncle's virtues.
He was wary of Jaime — perhaps some rumor had finally reached him after all. But he adored Cersei, his doting mother who indulged his every whim and lavished him with gifts.
He held his future father-in-law, Mace Tyrell, in contempt, calling him nothing but "Fat Rosen", skillfully hiding his true feelings behind a hypocritical smile.
Exploring Joffrey's memories, I came to some rather disappointing — though entirely predictable — conclusions. The boy genuinely believed the whole world owed him everything, that all revolved around his whims, and that others existed solely to carry out his orders.
He divided people very simply and straightforwardly into three categories: enemies to be destroyed — the more painfully, the better; useful allies and relatives who served his needs; and everyone else, who might, in time, attract attention and slide into one of the first two groups.
Joffrey's judgments of people and events were shallow and cruel, untouched by words like conscience, justice, duty, generosity, or courage.
When the servants cleared the tables, the guests began presenting their gifts.
Cersei approached first, handing me a heavy, luxurious cloak of velvet and fur, explaining that it was a family heirloom. My great-grandfather had draped it over his bride's shoulders, Robert Baratheon had done the same for Cersei herself — and now it was my turn to cloak Margaery.
"Thank you, Mother," I said politely.
Next came a tall, muscular man — his skin dark as polished obsidian — dressed in bright, flamboyant colors. It was Jalabhar Xho, the exiled prince of the Summer Isles. He presented me with a bow of golden wood and a quiver of long arrows with feathers of many hues.