The Red Keep's Maegor's Holdfast glowed with filtered afternoon light. High windows of colored glass cast rainbow bands across the thick carpets. Long tables formed a massive horseshoe, ready for more than three hundred guests. Servants in royal livery moved like a disciplined army, the air thick with roast meat, spices, and the heavy scent of noble perfumes.
The last time the Red Keep felt this alive was at Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark's wedding. Today was bigger. This was King Joffrey Baratheon the First's wedding to Margaery Tyrell, and the High Septon had blessed it with every pious phrase he could muster.
Seven bless the union. Seven bless the realm's unity. Seven bless the alliance between the Reach and the crown. Seven bless… well, whatever the Seven could manage.
Joffrey sat at the head table shaped like the Iron Throne itself. He wore deep red and gold, a heavy crown of pure gold studded with rubies pressing down on his head. Tywin had made sure it looked regal. Joffrey didn't seem to care about the weight or the gods. He just smirked at his uncle Tyrion, that crooked, vicious little grin that promised trouble.
"Uncle Tyrion!"
The king's sharp voice cut through the noise. Tyrion sat lower at the table, calm as ever. He set down his cup and looked up.
"Your Grace?"
Joffrey grinned wider. "Your cup's empty, uncle. Can't have the king's own uncle sitting without wine at his wedding."
He grabbed the golden pitcher and circled the table, making sure half the hall could hear. Margaery watched from beside him, perfect smile frozen in place, eyes flickering with something uneasy.
"As your king, I command you to be thirsty."
Joffrey stopped in front of Tyrion and held the pitcher high. Ice-cold Arbor gold poured straight over the dwarf's head, soaking his fine purple velvet doublet. Wine ran down his face, into his eyes, over his beard, and onto the plates below.
The hall erupted in laughter.
Tyrion closed his eyes but didn't move. He didn't wipe his face. He just sat there, dripping, while the wine pooled around him. Sansa, beside him, showed nothing. She had seen worse from Joffrey long before she became Tyrion's wife.
Joffrey emptied the pitcher, tossed it aside, and barked for a fresh cup. A servant rushed over with a massive golden goblet, big enough that Tyrion needed both hands to hold it.
"Drink," Joffrey ordered. "All of it. Not a drop left."
Tyrion opened his eyes. Through the wine-blurred haze he looked at his nephew—the spoiled, sadistic boy his sister had raised to love cruelty.
"As you command, Your Grace."
He lifted the heavy goblet and drank. Wine spilled down his chin, mixing with what already drenched him. His throat worked steadily while the entire hall watched the dwarf forced to swallow a full liter of Arbor gold. His face flushed deep red, whether from the wine or the humiliation, no one could tell.
When the cup was empty, Tyrion set it down with shaking hands. His voice came out flat and terrifyingly calm.
"Thank you for the gift, Your Grace."
Joffrey stared at him for a few seconds, clearly disappointed that his uncle hadn't broken. He snorted and walked back to his seat. Tywin didn't even look up from cutting his roast. Margaery's smile stayed perfect, but her eyes had gone hard.
At the far end of the table, Olenna Redwyne had seen everything. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
"Your grandson has… quite the flair for performance, Lord Tywin."
Tywin kept cutting his meat. "Joffrey is king. Today is his wedding."
Olenna studied him for a long moment, then shook her head slowly. "That boy on the Iron Throne humiliated his own uncle in front of the entire court. Today he uses wine. Tomorrow it might be a sword. How long do you think a king like that stays seated?"
Tywin's knife paused. For the first time he glanced at her, eyes narrowing.
"Joffrey is young. He needs guidance."
"Some horses can't be trained," Olenna said lightly. "No matter how hard you whip them."
She went back to her food as if she hadn't just suggested regicide. Tywin understood the message perfectly. If the wild horse refused the saddle, you put it down and found a new one.
He looked at Joffrey laughing at a servant who had dropped a plate, ordering the man to kneel and pick up the food with his mouth. Cersei sat beside her son, smiling with open approval. At the other end, Margaery gently touched Joffrey's arm and whispered something. The king actually listened and let the servant go.
It looked like the perfect royal couple—handsome king, beautiful queen guiding him toward mercy. Tywin saw the calculation underneath.
Then the great doors opened.
A line of dwarfs marched in, all roughly Tyrion's height, dressed in ridiculous colorful jester outfits. Some played flutes, some beat tiny drums. Two carried a banner with a crude drawing. Four strong ones at the back hauled a miniature stage no taller than a man's knee.
The hall exploded with laughter. Even Tywin frowned—this wasn't on the program.
Joffrey leapt to his feet, face flushed with excitement. "They're here! My surprise! Start the show!"
One dwarf stepped forward and bowed with exaggerated flourish. "Great King Joffrey Baratheon the First, your most humble, most ridiculous, shortest servants present… The War of the Five Kings!"
The performance began. It was less theater and more vicious mockery. Dwarfs in wolf-head hats played Robb Stark. Another dwarf playing Walder Frey "beheaded" him, then stuffed the head into a toy direwolf's belly. Joffrey howled with laughter, pounding the table.
Margaery's smile stayed fixed, but her eyes were ice. Even at her own wedding, this was too far. She glanced at her grandmother. Olenna's face was unreadable.
Applause broke out—some genuine, most forced.
Tyrion sat frozen, watching men the same size as him perform this grotesque mockery of the war that had killed his friends and family. His hands clenched under the table until his nails bit into his palms.
The side door opened.
Jaime Lannister strode in wearing full white armor and cloak, face carved from stone, eyes burning with fury. He ignored the stage and walked straight to the head table, stopping before Tywin.
"Father," he said, voice low but tight. "I need to speak with you. Now."
Tywin didn't look up. "This is the king's wedding feast, Ser Jaime. Your duty is at his side."
"This can't wait." Jaime leaned closer. "It's about Vito Corleone."
Tywin's eyes sharpened. He set down his knife and stood. "Outside."
They moved to a quiet corner. Jaime didn't waste time.
"Why did you send the Redwyne fleet to ambush Dragonstone after Corleone landed? You promised me it was only a negotiation, not a death sentence."
Tywin's voice was cold. "Corleone serves House Lannister. If his death serves the realm, that is his value."
Jaime stared at him like he was seeing a stranger. "So you used him. You sent him in as bait, knowing he might die. He's my friend."
"Friend?" Tywin gave a short, contemptuous laugh. "You're over thirty, Jaime, and still believe in something as childish as friendship? In the game of thrones, only family and power matter."
He stepped closer. "Vito Corleone became dangerous. The order he built in Flea Bottom, the loyalty he commanded from the smallfolk—it exceeded what any servant should hold. He was becoming a power outside Lannister control. Such powers are either absorbed or destroyed."
Jaime shook his head, backing away. "You planned this from the beginning. From the moment you named him Grand Royal Commissioner. You let him grow strong so you could cut him down when it suited you. Friend or not. Whether he saved your son's life or not."
"This is rule, Jaime," Tywin said, disappointment clear. "You'll never learn it. My eldest son, my heir—you swing a sword, you dream, you let honor and sentiment cloud your judgment."
Jaime's jaw tightened. "I'm going to Dragonstone. Now. I'm bringing him back—"
A sudden commotion erupted from the main hall. Shouts. Gasps. People rising from their seats. Jaime turned, instincts as Lord Commander kicking in. He pushed through the crowd.
Joffrey lay on the floor, convulsing, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, skin turning purple, veins bulging. Poison.
"Joffrey!"
Jaime dropped to his knees and pulled the boy into his arms. Cersei shoved through the crowd like a lioness, screaming, tearing her son from Jaime's grasp.
"Joffrey! Look at me! Look at me!"
The king's limbs jerked once more, then went still. His eyes stared empty at the vaulted ceiling. The young king was dead on his own wedding day, in front of three hundred nobles, in his mother's arms.
Silence swallowed the hall.
Cersei slowly raised her head. Tears streaked her ruined makeup, but her green eyes blazed with pure murder. Her gaze swept the room and locked on one man.
Tyrion Lannister.
He stood there dripping wine, holding the empty pitcher, face blank with shock.
"You," Cersei hissed. "You did this."
Tyrion opened his mouth, but no words came. The wine had come from his hands. No one would believe otherwise.
"You poisoned him!" Cersei shrieked, voice shattering glass. "You poured his wine! You've been pouring all night! You killed my son! You killed the king!"
"Seize him! Seize the kinslayer! Seize the regicide!"
The Kingsguard moved instantly, grabbing Tyrion and pinning his arms.
At that exact moment the main doors burst open. Ser Addam Marbrand charged in, armor dusty, breathing hard.
He ignored the chaos and dropped to one knee before Tywin.
"Lord Tywin! Urgent news! The Redwyne fleet has turned! Lord Paxter Redwyne is dead—killed by Vito Corleone! Before jumping overboard, Corleone shouted that he acted on your orders! Hobber Redwyne now controls the fleet and is sailing for the Arbor!"
The hall went dead quiet again.
Tywin's face remained stone, but the muscle in his jaw ticked. Two disasters in one night. Joffrey murdered. The fleet lost. Corleone alive and blaming him. The Tyrells watching everything.
He closed his eyes for three long seconds. When he opened them, every trace of emotion was gone.
"Ser Meryn. Arrest Tyrion Lannister for regicide and throw him in the black cells."
"Ser Addam, seal the Red Keep. No one enters or leaves. Put the Gold Cloaks on full alert and lock down every dock."
"Ser Kevan, stabilize the Small Council and summon every lord immediately."
Orders snapped out calm and precise. The Hand of the King had taken control once more.
At least on the surface.