The capital welcomed us with extraordinary pomp. Common folk lined the road, and near the gate tower, both outside and within the Red Keep, the entire court greeted us. We might not have been victors, but we had preserved the army and lost none of our prestige. And that was worth a great deal.
Barely having washed off the dust of the road and greeted those closest to me, I went to my wife's chambers and, for a long time—over an hour—held my children in my arms, studying them, admiring them. They were incredibly alike, and I still hadn't learned how to tell them apart. One of the twins woke, but didn't cry—he simply looked at me, trying to focus his bright green eyes and adorably furrowing his brow. An astonishing feeling…
"This is Luthor," Margaery said, standing beside me and taking my arm.
I handed her the swaddled little one and carefully, supporting his head, lifted the second son from the cradle. Tywin didn't wake at all, merely smacking his lips in his sleep.
"They look just like you," Margaery noted.
"I think they take more after you."
"Then they take after both of us," she said, stepping closer and tracing a finger along my right cheek. "That little scar suits you."
"And you are made more beautiful by two children," I replied, letting my gaze travel appreciatively over her graceful figure and involuntarily let my gaze linger on the bodice of her dress.
Not so long ago, I had no one at all in Westeros. Margaery was the first person close to me, and then, one by one, others began to appear. And now I had children. I had become so surrounded by loved ones, friends, and connections that I had begun, without even noticing it, to think of this world as my home. Now, if the Seven were to offer me a choice again, I would no longer wish to leave Westeros.
That evening we held a modest feast. Some pitiful hundred people or so attended. All the most important celebrations were planned for the following days.
While we were eating, Margaery and I kept looking at each other the whole time, both literally dreaming that the dinner would end as soon as possible.
And the dinner did end. At last, we found ourselves alone in our bedchamber. The wet nurse and maid were with the twins in separate rooms. In Westeros, noble ladies preserved their figures and did not like to nurse their children with their own breast, and Margaery was no exception in this regard. The night lay before us, and it belonged entirely to us.
Still dressed, we fell onto the bed. I hastily lifted her skirts and began untying her undergarments. Margaery responded with a loud moan to my first movement and arched her whole body toward me, eager to join with me as deeply and tightly as possible. It didn't take long for us to reach our climax together.
Almost immediately, without any pause, we went for a second round. And now, as that first surge of passion ebbed slightly, we savored each other—slowly, unhurriedly, relishing every moment. Margaery's skin glowed in the darkness like ivory, her breath carried a hint of cinnamon, and her body was young and supple. Tender lips whispered sweet words and kissed me, moving lower and lower.
The whole world vanished, and only the two of us remained.
We left the bedchamber only the next day, closer to noon—exhausted, sleep-deprived, but infinitely happy. The entire court cast knowing glances at us, hiding their smiles.
For the next three days, we walked, celebrated, and enjoyed life. First, we held a feast in honor of Lord Mace Tyrell and Lord Paxter Redwyne for the taking of Storm's End and the battle at the Feastfires.
Toasts in honor of the lords and the knights who had distinguished themselves followed one after another. Paxter continued overseeing the construction of a new fleet on the Arbor, while my good father-in-law gladly "carried the burden" for both of them. Mace Tyrell looked incredibly pleased—even happy. It seemed this was exactly what he had dreamed of for so long. And most importantly, it was all well deserved.
The following evening, a feast was held in honor of Jaime and me. We all agreed to consider the Battle at the Hill and the Stand at the Ruby Ford an unquestionable success.
The first toast was raised by the Hand:
"To King Joffrey—his courage, bravery, and composure!"
"To King Joffrey—his courage, bravery, and composure!" the entire hall echoed—some three hundred people seated at three enormous tables.
And once again, the toasts followed one after another. The second was for Jaime, then for William Mutton, Erik Fell, Bonifer Hasty, and Archmaester Marwyn the Mage, who had saved more than one life thanks to his healing skills.
We drank to the Kingsguard, who had shown themselves beyond all praise in that battle. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the expression on Loras Tyrell's face and realized that the boy could no longer be kept in the Red Keep. Well then, you shall have your war, Knight of Flowers!
Servants brought dish after dish. After trout roasted on spits, the bard Alaric of Eysen—who had become a fixture since my wedding to Margaery—stepped into the center of the throne hall. He set his right foot forward and plucked the first note from his golden harp. He truly was a fine singer, and he had a fine sense for what the lords wished to hear. He also knew how to compose songs, and they turned out quite decent. For this day, he had written and now performed for the first time "The Lion in a Garland of Roses." The ballad was not bad, though it lacked something—perhaps emotion, perhaps life.
(End of Chapter)
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