Chapter 75: Assassination
The gift-giving began after the first dance.
It was the established form — guests presenting their offerings to the newlyweds in turn, a procession of blessings measured in silver and gold and the occasional gesture of genuine personal thought. The table at the head of the hall accumulated accordingly: bolts of fine cloth, ornamental weapons, chests of coin, objects of Essosi craft brought north by merchants who'd stayed for the tournament and decided a lord's wedding was worth attending.
Mace Tyrell went first, because Mace Tyrell could not be prevented from going first, and announced with considerable ceremony that in Margaery's name he was funding the construction of a new sept in the lordship of the Bay of Crabs. He said this at a volume appropriate for a hall three times larger than the one he was standing in. Lady Olenna, from her seat, appeared to be studying the ceiling.
Joffrey presented Henry with a dagger — Valyrian steel, the hilt worked from dragonbone in a pattern of interlocked scales, the blade dark and patterned in the way of all Valyrian steel. It was a remarkable gift and Joffrey knew it, watching Henry's face with the particular attention of a boy who wants to see that he's got it right.
"It belonged to my grandfather's collection," Joffrey said. "He had several. I thought you'd use it better than a vault would."
Henry turned the blade in his hands. "It's extraordinary. Thank you, Your Grace."
Myrcella gave Margaery a set of emerald jewelry — earrings and a necklace, gold settings, the green stones catching the torchlight. Tommen, with the solemn formality of a boy who has put serious thought into his contribution, presented a kitten. It was grey, extremely small, and regarded the assembled nobility with the absolute indifference of its kind.
Margaery accepted it with what appeared to be genuine delight.
Willas Tyrell had one of his men lead a bay warhorse through the hall's main doors — a big animal, deep-chested, with the collected energy of a horse that has been trained well and knows it. Henry came down from the table to look it over properly, running his hand along the neck, checking the feet, and the horse stood for it with the good manners of an animal raised by someone who understood horses rather than someone who simply owned them.
"He's from my own breeding program," Willas said, from his chair nearby. "His dam won three races at Highgarden before I retired her. His sire is the best jumper in the Reach." He watched Henry with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has found exactly the right gift. "He needs a rider who won't waste him."
"He won't be wasted," Henry said.
Garlan and his wife Leonette gave Margaery a gilded carriage, which was practical and generous and made Margaery smile in the specific way she smiled when something pleased her without requiring any performance of pleasure.
Loras had not come. No explanation had been offered and no one asked for one.
Eddard Stark, absent himself, had sent his daughters with a cradle — solid northern oak, simply made, built to last — which caused a brief ripple of knowing looks among the assembled nobility and made Margaery laugh and Henry look at the ceiling.
Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven sent a cloak embroidered in silver thread, which arrived by messenger with a note of congratulation and apology for his absence.
Syrio Forel presented a rapier.
It was not a fighting sword in the northern sense — not built for the weight and leverage of armored combat, not designed to take a shield blow or beat through plate. It was built for something different. The blade was slender, slightly flexible, its point extremely fine, the whole thing balanced in a way that became apparent the moment Henry picked it up and felt the weight distribute through his hand. The hilt was simple and elegant, the crossguard minimal, the grip wrapped in dark leather worn smooth by the hand that had carried it.
"Tobho Mott made it to Syrio Forel's instruction," Syrio said, with the slight bow he made when presenting something he considered serious. "There is only one copy in all of Westeros. The Water Dance does not use such a blade, but a man who knows what he is doing can make a sword like this sing."
Henry set it back on the table with the care appropriate to something irreplaceable.
Jestyn Polver — the Iron Fist, commanding the City Watch in Henry's absence — had sent a short spear on behalf of the Watch's officers, the socket and crosspiece set with rubies in a pattern that suggested someone had consulted a goldsmith rather than a blacksmith, which meant the Watch's officers had pooled resources and made a collective decision about what was appropriate for their former commander's wedding. Henry noted this and would remember it.
Ser Barristan had sent a shield. It was a knight's shield, plain and well-made, with no house device on it — a working shield, not a ceremonial one. The note with it said only: For use, not display. Which was Barristan's way of saying what Barristan always said.
The line of guests had thinned to the last few stragglers when the man approached the table.
Henry noticed him before Syrio did, which was not something that happened often with people Syrio considered worth noticing. The man was dressed in silk — a merchant's quality, Essosi cut — and carried himself with the particular stillness of someone who has learned to move without drawing attention. His accent, when he spoke, placed him somewhere across the Narrow Sea.
"My lord." He produced a wooden box from inside his robe — ornately carved, lacquered dark wood, the kind of container that announced its contents were fragile or valuable or both. "A humble gift. My congratulations on your union."
Henry was looking at the man's hands.
"I don't know you," Henry said.
"My lord—"
"Henry." Syrio's voice, sharp and immediate, from six feet away.
Henry was already moving.
He stepped left without deciding to, the instinct of someone who has spent enough time in situations where half a second matters — and the wooden box left the man's hand and hit the stone floor where Henry had been standing.
The lid cracked open on impact.
What came out was not what the box had appeared to contain.
It was roughly the size of a man's fist, pale green, its carapace segmented and hard-looking, its tail curved up over its back ending in a barbed point that caught the torchlight and gleamed wet. It moved fast — faster than something that size should move — and orientated immediately toward Henry with the focused intent of something that has been trained to a specific target.
Henry grabbed the nearest thing on the table — a silver dinner plate — and swung it hard. The creature hit the plate with a sound like striking armor and flew back, landing on the flagstones and righting itself with horrible speed.
Jon had his dagger out.
He dropped to one knee and drove the blade through the creature's carapace, pinning it to the floor. It thrashed twice, twice more, and went still, its legs still moving in the diminishing way of things that haven't received the message yet.
The assassin had produced a short blade from his sleeve.
He came over the table — using the table, jumping to it, the movement of a man who has trained for close spaces — and brought the blade down toward Henry's throat.
Margaery pulled the tablecloth.
It was not a considered strategic action. She saw the blade and her hands moved, yanking the cloth toward her with everything she had. The gifts and the food and the wine and the candles went with it — and so did the assassin's footing. He came down hard on the table surface, sprawling, his knife hand slapping the wood.
Henry caught the knife hand with his left and held it.
With his right he reached across the scattered gifts to the dragonbone dagger Joffrey had given him not twenty minutes ago, closed his hand around the hilt, and drove it into the assassin's chest.
The man went still.
The strange creature on the floor stopped moving entirely, its legs curling inward. Jon pulled his dagger free and wiped it on the flagstone without standing up, watching the thing with the expression of someone confirming it was finished.
The hall had gone completely silent.
Then, from somewhere in the back, a woman screamed — one short sound, quickly cut off when it became clear the immediate threat was over. The assembled nobility looked at the body on the table, at Margaery standing with the tablecloth bunched in her hands and wine across the front of her wedding gown, at Henry with Joffrey's dagger in his fist, and processed what had just happened.
Joffrey was on his feet, his face flushed, his jaw set in the way it set when he was controlling something with effort. Myrcella had her hand over her mouth. Tommen was holding the grey kitten against his chest as if it required protection.
Syrio reached the table and looked at the creature pinned to the floor with the focused attention of someone identifying a species. "A manticore," he said. "Trained and transported in a sealed container. They're used by the Sorrowful Men of Qarth — a guild of assassins from the east." He looked at Henry. "They work for gold. Someone hired this."
"How much?" Mace said, from his seat, with the outraged expression of a man who has been personally insulted. "How much could it cost? I'm not sure I couldn't afford—"
"Father." Willas's voice, from his chair. Quiet and precise, in the manner of someone who has had years of practice redirecting his father. "He means someone wished to disrupt our alliance before it could take root." He looked at the body on the table with the steady assessment of someone following the logic rather than the emotion. "A household with one surviving member is considerably easier to end than a household with allies. The efficient solution to our alliance was a sharp blade at a wedding feast."
The name that occurred to everyone was spoken by no one.
Joffrey said, tightly, "Coward," which covered it adequately.
"Well." Lady Olenna surveyed the servants, who had gathered at the hall's edges in the uncertain way of people waiting to be told what to do. "Are you going to stand there all evening? Remove that, clean the table, replace the cloth, and bring more food. This old woman has barely eaten and I refuse to go to bed hungry because of a dead assassin."
The servants moved.
Arya, who had been watching everything with the focused attention of someone taking notes, slipped through the activity around the table and picked up the rapier that had been knocked to the floor with the rest of the gifts. She turned it in her hands the way Henry had — feeling the balance, the way the weight sat differently from a training sword.
"What kind of sword is this?" she asked.
"A Water Dancer's blade." Syrio came to stand beside her. "The style used in Braavos — not for power, for precision. One of a kind in all of Westeros." He tilted his head. "Syrio Forel gave it to Lord Henry."
Arya looked at Henry.
Henry was watching her with the expression of a man who has already made a decision and is waiting for the question.
"Willas brought you six warhorses," Willas said, from his chair, with the mild suggestion of someone watching an interesting negotiation. "You might consider offering a trade."
Arya's eyes went to Willas, then back to Henry. She crossed the hall with the directness that characterized everything she did.
"I'll trade you six of Willas's warhorses for it," she said. "He said I could."
Willas pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Done," Henry said.
Arya took the rapier back to her seat holding it the way the people in the stories held things that mattered, and Willas looked at Henry with the resigned expression of a man who has just realized his generosity has been very specifically repurposed.
Henry lifted his cup toward him. Willas shook his head and lifted his own.
"Music!" Lady Olenna rapped the table with her knuckles. "What am I paying you for? Play something."
The musicians played.
The fool resumed his performance at a safer distance from the head table.
The servants laid a fresh cloth over the cleaned stone, replaced the candles, and brought food that had not been near an assassination attempt.
The feast continued.
When the hall had settled back into the noise and warmth of a proper celebration — the incident already becoming the story it would be told as in the years ahead — Lady Olenna leaned toward Margaery and said, in a voice pitched just low enough for the nearby table to require effort to hear: "What is that fish from the Summer Islands? The one that puffs itself up to three times its size when it's frightened?"
"A puffer fish, Grandmother," Margaery said.
"Yes." Olenna looked at Mace, who was eating with the committed focus of a man who has decided the evening's drama is behind him. "I've always thought it should be called a Mace instead."
"Mother," Mace said, without looking up, "I understand everything and I am choosing to ignore you."
"There." Olenna patted his arm with the brisk affection of someone who has given a child a good report. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said all evening."
She turned to Henry.
"Listen to me, Little Lion." Her voice had dropped from the carrying tone she used for everything and become something quieter and more direct. "My foolish son wants to go home and shout about daggers and honor until his face goes red. Don't let him write any letters tonight." She held Henry's gaze with the bright, unhurried eyes of a woman who has been navigating other people's stupidity for seven decades. "Anger is not a weapon. Anger is a tell. It tells your enemy exactly how much they've gotten to you and exactly where to push next time." She reached out and touched the back of Henry's hand once — a brief, pointed contact. "The knife in your hand. The right moment. One blow, cleanly placed, when they're not looking for it." She sat back. "That is how a lion hunts. Not by roaring."
Henry looked at her — at the age in her face, at the intelligence behind it, at the particular quality of someone who has won enough quiet battles to know exactly what winning looks like.
"I'll remember, Grandmother," he said.
"See that you do." She picked up her cup. "Now drink something. You look like a man attending a council meeting instead of his own wedding."
Margaery appeared at his side and took his hand, and the musicians found something worth dancing to, and the hall was warm with torchlight and the particular noise of people who have decided that an assassination attempt is not sufficient reason to end a good feast.
[Support Goal: 500 PS → +1 Chapter]
[Support Goal: 10 Reviews → +1 Chapter]
Your review helps the story grow.
P1treon Soulforger (20+chapters ahead)