The Red Keep, Maegors Holdfast.
The stained glass set into the high windows filtered the afternoon sunlight into colorful bands of light, projecting them onto the carpeted floor.
The long tables were arranged in a massive horseshoe shape, large enough to accommodate over three hundred guests.
Servants dressed in royal livery moved between the tables like a well-trained army; the air was thick with the aroma of roasted meat, spices, and the expensive perfumes of the nobility.
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The last time the Red Keep was this lively was... the last time.
Specifically, during the wedding of Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark.
But today was different. The grandeur of the ceremony far exceeded the previous one, for today was the wedding of King Joffrey Baratheon I and Lady Margaery Tyrell.
The Seven bless this marriage—at least, that was what the High Septon said.
The Seven bless the unification of the realm, solidifying the alliance between The Reach and the Crown.
The Seven bless... if the Seven were truly busy enough to care.
However, at this moment, Joffrey, seated at the head table shaped like the Iron Throne, seemed entirely indifferent to the gods' blessings. He merely wore a dissolute, unrestrained smile, looking at the small dwarf not far away like a smug Dragon King, plotting who-knows-what.
Today, he was dressed in magnificent crimson and gold attire, wearing a crown of pure gold set with rubies. It was one Lord Tywin had specially commissioned for his coronation day, and it was so heavy that Joffrey had to adjust his posture from time to time.
"Uncle Tyrion!"
Suddenly, the King's sharp voice rang out.
The little dwarf, who had been called out, sat at the lower end of the head table. Hearing his nephew's call, he set down his wine cup and looked up with a very calm expression.
"What are Your Grace's commands?"
Joffrey grinned. "Your cup is empty, Uncle."
He deliberately raised his voice so the nobles at the surrounding tables could hear. "How can the King's uncle have nothing to drink?"
"Come, I shall pour for you personally."
The banquet hall fell silent for a moment.
Tyrion pursed his lips, his hand beneath the table clenching into a slight fist, yet he maintained a polite smile. "Your Grace is too kind, but I am not thirsty."
"Not thirsty?" Joffrey picked up the golden flagon from the table and swaggered around to stand before Tyrion.
The queen-to-be, Margaery, sat beside the King. As she watched her husband walk toward Tyrion, her delicate face maintained a perfect smile, but a trace of an unreadable emotion flickered in her eyes.
"As King, I command you to be thirsty."
Finally, Joffrey stopped in front of Tyrion, looking down at the dwarf sitting on the high chair. He deliberately held the flagon high—
Splash! Splash!
Chilled Arbor gold wine poured over Tyrion's head, soaking his expensive purple velvet doublet. The liquid dripped into his plate, creating small splashes.
At this sight, the banquet hall instantly erupted into a roar of laughter.
Tyrion closed his eyes, letting the wine flow down his cheeks. He did not move, nor did he wipe it away; he simply sat there silently, like a statue drenched in wine.
Even his beautiful wife beside him, Sansa, showed no reaction.
Because before Tyrion had arrived in King's Landing, she had already endured enough of such mockery from Joffrey and had long since grown accustomed to it.
Back then, she was still his queen-to-be.
Finally, Joffrey finished pouring the last drop from the flagon and carelessly tossed the empty vessel onto the floor.
"Now you are thirsty, Uncle." He laughed loudly. "Quickly, bring the King's uncle a new cup! A large one!"
"..."
A servant hurriedly handed over a massive golden chalice, so large that Tyrion needed both hands to hold it.
Joffrey took the cup, personally filled it to the brim from another flagon, and then thrust it into Tyrion's hands.
"Drink!" the King commanded forcefully. "Drink it all! Not a single drop is to be left!"
Tyrion opened his eyes.
Droplets still hung from his eyelashes, blurring his vision.
Through this blur, he looked at Joffrey—this monster born of his sister Cersei, a boy tyrant who found joy in humiliating and tormenting others.
"As you wish, Your Grace."
Instead of showing anger, Tyrion raised the massive golden cup with both hands and tilted his head back to drink.
The wine overflowed from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin and mixing with the wine already on his head.
Everyone watched as the dwarf held a cup larger than his own head, forced to down an entire liter of wine.
His throat worked rhythmically as he swallowed; the front of his purple doublet was completely soaked, the color turning a dark shade nearly approaching black.
Finally, the cup was empty.
When Tyrion set the golden chalice down, his arms were visibly trembling.
His face was flushed red, whether from the alcohol or the humiliation, or perhaps both. He took a deep breath and then said in a voice that was terrifyingly calm, "My thanks for Your Grace's bounty."
Joffrey stared at him for a few seconds, seemingly dissatisfied with his uncle's reaction.
"Hmph." Eventually, he snorted and turned to walk back to his seat.
As he passed his grandfather, Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King didn't seem to even lift an eyelid, merely continuing to cut the roasted meat on his plate with his knife and fork.
At the other end of the head table, Lady Olenna Redwyne took everything in.
"Your grandson has quite a... talent for performance, Lord Tywin."
Hearing this, Tywin still did not look up, merely saying flatly, "Joffrey is the King, and today is his wedding."
Olenna stared at Tywin for a long time, then slowly shook her head. "That boy sitting on the Iron Throne—if he can publicly humiliate his own uncle today, he can humiliate anyone who displeases him tomorrow. Today he pours wine on a head; tomorrow it might be a sword. How long can such a King sit securely upon the Iron Throne?"
At these words, Tywin's pupils contracted slightly.
"His Grace Joffrey is still young and requires guidance," he said firmly.
"Some people cannot be taught." Olenna wiped her mouth, her voice returning to its usual briskness. "Just as some horses are born wild and untamable; no amount of whipping will help."
With that, she resumed eating, as if what she had just said was merely inconsequential small talk.
But Tywin understood.
If a horse born wild and untamable would not submit to discipline, then there was only one option... to change horses.
Thinking this, he couldn't help but look toward Joffrey at the head of the table.
The King was loudly mocking a servant who had dropped a plate, ordering the man to pick up the food while kneeling. Cersei, sitting beside her son, did not stop him; instead, she wore an approving smile.
She was always like this, doting on Joffrey to the point of blind obsession.
Tywin then looked at Margaery.
The young Queen was gently dissuading her husband, patting his arm and whispering something. Joffrey seemed to listen and let the servant go.
The scene looked very harmonious: a handsome King, a beautiful Queen, and a Queen gently guiding the King toward mercy.
But Tywin saw something deeper.
Just then, the doors to the banquet hall opened.
It was not a servant who entered, nor a noble.
It was a group of... dwarfs.
They were nearly all the same height as Tyrion, dressed in multi-colored jester costumes, filing into the banquet hall in a crooked line.
Some blew flutes, some beat small drums, and two carried a banner painted with a ridiculous design. At the end of the procession, four of the strongest dwarfs carried a miniature stage.
It was very small indeed, only reaching the height of a normal person's knee.
The banquet hall immediately erupted into uninhibited laughter. This time, even Tywin frowned, as he had not arranged this performance.
Joffrey, however, leaped from his seat, his face flushed with excitement. "It's here! My surprise is here! Quick, quick, start the performance!"
Soon, the dwarfs placed the miniature stage in the open space in the center of the hall.
Then one of them walked up to Joffrey and gave an exaggeratedly comical bow. "Great King Joffrey Baratheon I, your humblest, funniest, and smallest servants present to you the play—'The War of the Five Kings'!"
"Begin! Begin!" Joffrey pounded on the table.
At the King's urging, the play began.
It was less a play and more a carefully prepared farce.
the dwarfs used exaggerated movements and high-pitched voices to play the various roles: Renly, Stannis...
The most egregious was the dwarf playing Robb Stark. He wore a shaggy wolf-head hat and had his "head cut off" by another dwarf playing Walder Frey, after which the head was stuffed into the belly of a toy wolf.
Joffrey shrieked with laughter, doubling over. "Well played! Hahaha!"
Beside him, Margaery's smile froze on her face. Although this wedding directly marked the end of the northern rebellion, to publicly perform this scene at their wedding... it was truly a bit too much.
She couldn't help but look at her grandmother, only to find Lady Olenna expressionless.
Scattered applause rang out in the banquet hall.
Some genuinely found it funny, while others were merely forced to go along with it.
Tyrion sat in his seat, watching "his own kind" of the same height perform this insulting play; his fists were clenched so tightly under the table that his nails nearly pierced his palms.
Just then, the side door of the banquet hall opened.
The person who entered this time caused all laughter to come to a sudden halt.
Jaime Lannister.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard wore his full set of white armor today, draped in a snow-white cloak, but there was no joy for the wedding on his face.
On the contrary, his expression was cold and hard, and a fire of rage burned in those emerald-green eyes.
Instead of going toward the King, Jaime walked straight through the banquet hall until he reached the high table and stopped before Tywin Lannister.
"Father." He deliberately lowered his voice: "I need to speak with you. Now."
Tywin looked up at his son, and instead of granting his request, he refused bluntly: "It is the King's wedding feast now, Ser Jaime. You have a duty to guard His Majesty's side."
"This cannot wait!"
Jaime raised his voice slightly, then quickly lowered it again: "It's about... Vito Corleone."
Upon hearing Corleone's name, Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly.
He set down his napkin and slowly stood up: "We will talk outside."
The two went to a corner of the hall, one after the other. Once they were away from the crowd, Jaime stepped forward anxiously and questioned in a low voice: "Why did you send the Redwyne Fleet to raid Dragonstone after Corleone went onto the island?"
"You promised me he was only going there to negotiate, not to his death!"
Seeing Jaime so agitated, a flash of dissatisfaction crossed Tywin's eyes, and he said coldly: "Corleone is a servant of House Lannister."
""
"He serves House Lannister, and he serves the kingdom. If his death can bring benefit to the kingdom, then that is his value."
"So you sent him to his death?" Jaime looked at his father in disbelief, his emotions becoming even more stirred: "You used him, letting him think he had a mission, when in reality you just used him as bait, making him a sacrifice?"
"He was my friend!!"
"Friend?" Tywin sneered, a hint of mockery in his voice: "You are in your thirties, Jaime, and you still believe in something as childish as 'friends'?"
"In the game of thrones, only the family's interests come first!"
"Vito Corleone is a dangerous man. The order he established in Flea Bottom, his influence in the underworld, and his control over the commoners—these all exceed the scope of a servant."
"He was becoming a force, a force beyond Lannister control. Such a force must either be absorbed or destroyed."
As he spoke, Tywin also took a step forward, staring at his son and warning in an unquestionable tone: "I gave him a chance."
"I sent him to Dragonstone. If he truly could persuade Stannis to surrender, then it proves he is still useful; if he died in the process, then a future trouble has been cleared away."
"Either way, House Lannister is the winner."
At these words, Jaime fell silent.
He shook his head and backed away, as if truly recognizing his father for the first time, his voice somewhat bitter: "So... you were plotting against him from the very beginning."
"From the moment you appointed him as the chief special agent of the small council, from the moment you had him clean up Flea Bottom, you were planning for this day."
"You let him build his power, let him feel important, and then discarded him at the appropriate time."
"Regardless of whether he was my... friend, regardless of whether he saved my life."
"This is the art of ruling, Jaime." Seeing Jaime still going on about a "friend," Tywin also shook his head in disappointment and replied: "You will never learn, my eldest son, my heir. You only know how to swing a sword, how to dream, and how to act on emotions for some illusory 'honor' and 'friendship'."
These words were like a slap, stinging Jaime's face and leaving him unable to speak for a long time.
"I am going to Dragonstone. Now."
Suddenly, he looked up and spoke with stubborn tone: "No matter what, I will find Corleone and bring him back..."
""
Just as Jaime finished speaking, a sudden wave of chaos erupted from the banquet hall.
Jaime glanced back and saw the nobles rising from their seats; some were crying out, some were retreating, and others were trying to push forward to get a clear look.
The servants stood frozen in place, not knowing what to do.
His brow furrowed; his duty as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard made him instinctively sense that something was wrong.
Ignoring Tywin, he strode forward and pushed through the crowd. The scene before him made Jaime freeze instantly, his mind going blank!
The King, who had been enjoying the play just moments ago, was now collapsed on the ground vomiting blood. His skin was turning purple and his veins were bulging—he had clearly been poisoned!
"Joffrey!"
Finally reacting, he cried out and rushed forward to take his son into his arms, but by now, Joffrey's limbs were trembling violently, his eyes were rolling back, and blood was streaming from his nose and mouth. He was clearly dying!
"Let go of him!"
A scream rang out.
Cersei pushed through the crowd like a frenzied lioness, shoved Jaime aside, and snatched her son into her own arms.
"Joffrey!"
"My son! Look at me! Look at me!"
Her voice was filled with sobs as she called to her son, but Joffrey could no longer hear her.
His convulsions grew weaker and weaker until they stopped completely. Those eyes that were once full of cruelty and arrogance now stared emptily, reflecting the high ceiling of the banquet hall.
He was dead.
The young King had died at his own wedding feast, before three hundred nobles, in his mother's arms.
A deathly silence enveloped the entire banquet hall.
Once certain her son no longer drew breath, Cersei slowly looked up.
Her golden hair was disheveled, and her exquisite makeup was ruined by tears, but a fire of mad rage burned in those green eyes that were just like Tywin's.
Her gaze swept across the crowd and finally fixed on one person.
Tyrion Lannister.
His clothes were still wet, his hair was a mess, and wine stains still marked his face. Amidst the chaotic crowd, he stood there like a forgotten ornament, holding a wine flagon helplessly.
"You."
Cersei's voice was hoarse: "It was you!"
Hearing this, Tyrion was instantly stunned.
But he could not say a word, because the wine had indeed been poured by him; at this moment, he feared no one would believe anything he said.
"You were the one who poisoned him!"
Cersei continued to scream, her voice so sharp it could almost pierce eardrums: "You poured the wine for him! You were pouring the wine the whole time!"
"You poisoned my son! You poisoned the King!"
"Arrest him! Arrest this murderer! Arrest this kingslayer!"
Upon hearing this, the Kingsguard did not hesitate to step forward and seize Tyrion firmly.
However, at this moment of extreme chaos, the doors of the banquet hall were suddenly burst open.
Ser Adam Marbrand rushed in.
The commander of the City Watch was covered in dust, his breathing ragged; he had clearly run all the way here.
He ignored the chaos in the hall and didn't even notice Joffrey's body on the ground at first, but ran straight to Tywin and knelt on one knee, shouting: "Lord Tywin! Emergency military intelligence!"
"The Redwyne Fleet has mutinied! Lord Paxter Redwyne has died at the hands of Vito Corleone. Before jumping into the sea, the murderer Corleone shouted that he was acting on your orders. Currently, Hobber Redwyne has taken control of the fleet and is sailing back to The Arbor!"
As these words were spoken, a collective gasp of cold air instantly filled the banquet hall.
Tywin remained as steady as a mountain, but anyone could see that his face had turned quite grim, his eyes fixed intently on Adam.
The King murdered, and such a massive upheaval on the front lines.
A coincidence?
Or a long-premeditated plot?
Vito Corleone had not only survived but had also killed Paxter in retaliation, framed Tywin, and placed Hobber in power.
And House Tyrell... how much do they really know about this?
Out of control.
Everything was out of control.
Tywin closed his eyes and remained silent for a long time. When he opened them again, all emotion had vanished, leaving only decisiveness.
"Ser Meryn," he said calmly, "arrest Tyrion Lannister and imprison him in the dungeons of the Red Keep on the charge of regicide."
"Ser Adam, seal off the Red Keep immediately. No one is to enter or leave. Implement controls at all docks. The City Watch is to enter a state of maximum alert."
"Kevan, you are responsible for stabilizing the Small Council. Notify all ministers to assemble for an emergency meeting."
The orders were issued clearly and calmly.
The Hand seemed to have regained control of the situation, at least on the surface.
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