In the Great Sept, Joffrey continued to put on a show.
Although they make a splendid couple, Tyrion had to admit. If the boy wishes it, he can charm anyone. And Margaery is simply beautiful.
The thought flickered through his mind and vanished like a passing cloud. At that moment, all he wanted in the world was to take a piss—it seemed he'd overdone it with the wine that morning.
In the evening, the feast began.
Having recovered a little, Tyrion noticed with surprise a new man—a fat fellow he was almost certain he had seen before. This fatness tasted all the wines and dishes served to the king.
Ser Tallad, Joffrey's constant companion since the Hound's escape, on the contrary, was clearly in disfavor. The king seated the border knight at a distant table and clearly no longer needing or wanting his company. This was unfortunate, because Tyrion had hoped to marry Tallad to Shae—thus not only finding a home for the girl, but also securing access to a man who would know with whom the king spoke and what he spoke of.
Something was happening, and Tyrion didn't like it—not when he couldn't understand the reason behind it.
Bards sang their songs. Magicians performed unusual, wondrous tricks. Guests laughed, clapped, and joined in the singing. Dark, unkind thoughts crowded Tyrion's mind.
The feast was in full swing. And when he saw Joffrey begin to kiss his bride, and she—joyful and laughing—eagerly respond, it was the last straw.
If that bastard gains the love of such a beautiful lady, just like that, by sheer accident, I'll be furious. Where are the Seven looking? Why do some receive everything, though they deserve nothing, while others get nothing from the gods but a hideous body?
Tyrion drank cup after cup, and with each one his mood sank lower.
It seemed Joff had managed to roll around with some wench the night before. Otherwise there was no explanation for the changes in him. Old Bronn—now Ser Bronn of the Blackwater—had once remarked that Joff could use a good fuck to let some of the poison out of his balls. Well, it seemed he had released that excess venom. The only question was: who was supplying the king with whores now?
Tyrion did not envy his nephew—he was angry at himself. And at the people who refused to see, refused even to consider, who he truly was.
He had saved King's Landing from Stannis's army; he had devised the use of wildfire and the chain; he prevented war with Dorne; he saved the throne for his nephew—yet they kicked him out of his position as Hand. None of those bastards offered even a word of gratitude. No one thanked him.
Is that fair?
They threw him out like a dog and tossed him a bone so he wouldn't bark too loudly—appointing him master of coin. A splendid gift, given that the treasury howled with emptiness and King Robert had left behind enough debt to drown a kingdom.
"Goats!"
"What did you say, my lord?" asked his neighbor at the table, Ser Garlan.
"I said the goats are poorly placed at the tables."
"Ah," Garlan replied, not understanding but feeling obliged to nod.
Ser Garlan ate from the same plate and drank from the same cup as his wife. They kissed often and looked at one another with such warm affection that Tyrion's armor of cynicism faltered for a moment. A moment of pain and loneliness struck him. He turned away, unwilling to dwell on it, but everywhere he looked there were women—beautiful, happy, and belonging to other men.
And they did not have to hide, as he hid Shae. And they loved their men. At least on this evening, at least for this one night—he easily saw the desire shining in their merry, drunken, wanton eyes. The hall was thick with the heady scent of vice and lust. It was even frightening to consider how many legitimate children and bastards would be conceived before dawn!
He ordered more wine and turned his gaze to Sansa, who sat with an indifferent, uninvolved expression.
You're a fool, Tyrion, he admitted to himself. Why in the hell are you protecting her virginity? She will never, ever appreciate the gesture. You look ridiculous—and my father is right when he says so. Her beautiful body could be mine. And I don't give a damn about her feelings. The gods are my witnesses, I've done everything possible these past weeks to win her favor.
His nephew continued to court Margaery. And after the dance—during which the pair looked so touching, so sweet together—all Tyrion's remaining doubts evaporated.
"Here, drink, my lady," he said, handing Sansa a full cup. "It will lift your spirits."
"Thank you, my lord, but I don't want any."
"Drink," Tyrion insisted.
Sansa hesitantly raised the cup, and he made her drink it all. Yes, it had been years since he last made a girl drink before going to bed with her. Back then, he drank too, to find his courage.
Let his wife find her courage in the cup. And let the wine help her endure the loss of her innocence—and endure that it would be taken by him, a Lannister.
Sansa was not used to wine. Tyrion saw how her cheeks flushed and her eyes began to sparkle from the drink. She even seemed to relax a little. All the better—after a while he made her drink more and allowed his gaze, with growing interest, to linger on the bodice of her dress.
And then night would fall. And whatever happened, the gods would see. He had delayed long enough, hoping for something he couldn't even name. Yes—he would be experienced, and he would be gentle. He would use every skill he possessed to give the girl physical pleasure. And the wine would help her accept that her first man was an ugly dwarf.
But he would do it…
And Sansa… well, she would quietly weep for her lost innocence and pretend everything was fine.
To the hells with feelings and dreams. Let tonight be what it must!
(End of Chapter)
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