Following the example of the others, I too prayed sincerely to the Seven — after all, I knew them a little closer than most of those present. Yet it was too soon for me to relax. If I survived, then I would give my true thanks — and bring a gift to the Great Sept.
When the gods had been duly honoured, the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin, rose and gave a long, elegant toast, in which he praised the newlyweds and asked the Seven to bless both their marriage and, at the same time, the entire Kingdom under the reign of Joffrey the First.
He fell silent. The guests applauded, whistled, and all turned to look at me. It seemed I, too, was expected to say something.
"Thank you, Lord Tywin!" I nodded to my grandfather. "Let us fill our cups! To the beautiful queen from a fairy tale — to my wife!"
"To Margaery!" the hall erupted. Hundreds of cups clinked together, and the wedding feast began.
That evening's banquet consisted of seventy-seven different dishes, representing the cuisines of all Westeros, Essos, and even the Summer Isles.
A little to the side, so as not to be too conspicuous, a separate table had been set for the new cupbearer — Ser Josib Spicer, a fat man with small, piggy eyes, sagging red cheeks, and greasy hair. In addition, he sweated profusely and constantly wiped his flushed face with a large handkerchief.
Yeah, it seemed Cersei had chosen someone for that honourable role for whom she felt absolutely no affection. Ser Josib himself, however, was clearly proud of his rapid rise in station.
The first course was a thick soup of mushrooms and snails. I did not even dare to try such horror, merely attending upon Margaery instead.
As expected, the wine was poured into the massive cup that the Tyrells had gifted — it could easily have held three or even four gallons. Enough, certainly, to make several men drunk. The wine itself was dark red, like blood, from Arbor.
Ser Josib was brought a portion of the same wine from my cup, along with the snail soup. His jaws worked energetically — he took his duties very seriously.
Those among the guests who were more attentive noticed the new cupbearer, yet voiced no thoughts aloud, keeping them to themselves.
I ordered a servant to serve the nearest guests from my own cup, and even sent a glass of wine to Tyrion. I had once read, or perhaps heard, that if a king or other high lord wished to honour someone, he would send them wine or food from his own table — a small token of favour, a sign that the person was esteemed.
Such a custom existed in Westeros as well. In any case, Joffrey was familiar with it, though, by his nature, he paid little heed to such niceties.
After Ser Josib and the guests had drunk the wine, and a little time had passed, I took a sip myself. And I must say, I had never tried anything like this before.
In truth, I had a plan. Throughout the feast, I drank only from that cup, remained sober, and ensured that no servant added anything to it. Moreover, the cup stayed in plain sight — it would not be easy for anyone to pour or drop something into it unnoticed.
After a while, the initial awkwardness and unease began to fade. The guests drank freely, becoming more relaxed, behaving naturally and without restraint.
I courted Margaery, admired her beauty, and from time to time my gaze strayed towards her cleavage. She caught one such glance and smiled with evident satisfaction.
The girl blushed and laughed often, yet I noticed a certain apprehension in her. Was she truly still a maiden, and now, alongside anticipation for her first night, did she harbour a little fear of what comes with the loss of innocence?
I looked about the hall.
Varys, that round-faced man who always strove to appear kinder than he truly was, ate little and drank nothing at all. Yet he watched everything keenly, his eyes flitting from one scene to the next. I would have wagered my head he was committing every detail to memory, storing it carefully in that subtle mind of his. In his loose robes, he reminded me of some venomous serpent — one that inspired fear and unease on the most instinctive level.
Grand Maester Pycelle sat beside him. Judging by their faces, neither man was pleased with the other's company. The thought flashed through my mind that the master of ceremonies had seated them together on purpose.
At another table, a black-haired, fiery woman laughed loudly at the Red Viper's jest. Moreover, Oberyn's hand rested most unambiguously upon her breast.
The second course arrived — a pâté of pork, chopped eggs, and pine nuts. A huge plate was placed on our table, and from there the servants portioned it out for all.
Deciding that a shared dish was unlikely to be poisoned, I ordered servings for myself and for Margaery.
Ser Ashley Groyl told me that seven of the greatest bards in the world would perform at the feast, one after another. The time came for the first of them — Hamish the Harper, a grey-bearded, weathered traveller.
He announced that he would sing a song of his own making — "Lord Renly's Ride." As I understood, it was dedicated to Margaery's late husband. At the first notes, the girl straightened and listened with intent.
From his throne of bones the Lord of Death
Looked down on the murdered lord.
He saw in his eyes the fires of passion,
And the memory of Lady of Reach.
"From now on, you are mine," said the Lord.
"Prepare yourself for pain and torment.
You have lived ill and created naught —
You deserve a cruel fate!"
"Who are you?" cried the brave lord.
"Who gave you such a right?
I fought well, treated my friends with honour,
And did deeds of good renown.
Only one thing weighs upon my soul:
I forgot my liege's loyalty!
And the young king shall not forgive me,
Until I make my duty whole!"