Without a blond head in sight participating in the lists, Lord Tywin had quickly lost interest in the first rounds of the jousting, leaving me alone with my annoying kingsguards on the royal stands, bored and aggravated.

From Tommen’s memories and my own knowledge, I thought watching two men on horses bash each other with lances would be all the entertainment I would ever need. And it was, for the first few runs, and every time someone flew out of their horses like a sack of potatoes. But not hours upon hours of it.

The first one to go was Boros the Belly. I sent him on some useless quest to the Red Keep, since I couldn’t stand to listen to another second of him breathing through his mouth like a drooling dog. Jaime was another bother, since he apparently left his usual cutting humor which made him a decent conversation at home. He looked constipated as he watched other men play at something he’d mastered, but now could hardly hold his shield aloft. And Ser Balon, well, I didn’t even know if he’d breathed once since he came back from getting checked out after the melee. He just stood there in the corner, ever the watchful sentry.

Ser Lyle Crakehall, the newest member of my esteemed Kingsguard, and my last remaining hope of entertainment with his booming voice and crude humor, had left for the Great Sept of Baelor right after I elevated him and laid a white cloak over his shoulders like a giant bearded bride. There, he would stand vigil in front of the Warrior a full day and a night before starting his duties.

Then, thinking myself a genius, I asked the Tyrells—minus Mace, who’d come down with a stomach infection—to join me up on the royal stands and watched their golden boy Loras put some pretenders in the dirt, if nothing else than to stave off the boredom.

I was truly starting to regret it now.

“You know, I remember Prince Rhaegar Targaryen in that tourney that started it all,” Olenna said. “He had his night-black armor on, with a three-headed dragon made of red rubies encustred on his breastplate. His violet eyes shone under his helm; his crimson cape flew on the wind. He looked so dashing, like the Warrior come to bless us with his image.” I saw Margaery groning on her hand. “A shame we don’t have a prince like that anymore… or a king.”

I shook my head. “You’ve been holding that one in since my father got the crown, haven’t you, my lady?”

“Oh you give me too much credit, Your Grace.” The Queen of Thorns had a small half-moon fan on one hand, and she used it to hide a fake demure smile behind it. “At my age, I can barely control my bowels anymore, much less my tongue. I would’ve said it to his face, had I thought of it before.”

“I remember Robert reaching for his warhammer for less, my lady,” Ser Jaime said from the side. “Especially when Targaeryens were involved.”

“Ah, and so the Lion of Lannister lives,” Olenna said. The way her eyes gleamed, I knew she was about to go all in on him. Poor Jaime. “I thought you’d sulk the whole day, seeing all these knights playing with their sticks while you can’t.

“Grandmother, please…” said Margaery, looking my way with sorry eyes.

Olenna waved her away and turned back to Jaime. “Think of it this way, dear. At least it was the left hand, wasn’t it? What, with the celibacy vows and all, you’ll need the right one to play with your stick for a little while longer.”

Jaime flushed red, and in his anger his nonmetal hand lept to the pommel of his sword.

I quickly lifted a hand. “Before you start murdering the rest of my kingsguards with sharp words, Lady Olenna, I would like to talk about the reason why I invited you here.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“And here I thought it was just for the pleasure of my company.”

“Like a visit to the maester, perhaps.” I smiled sweetly. “In small doses, separated by long periods of time.” She snorted and flapped her fan my way, as if telling me to get on with it. I think I was starting to grow on her. “I was hoping you would inform me as to when I can expect House Tyrell’s… contribution to our new joint dynasty.”

I had plans for that money, more than just hoarding it in some vault like a hand-wringing villain. I knew it would be foolish to invest in the industry and development of the land, not only because of the dragon queen and the nuclear winter that were coming, but because I had no intention of triggering some kind of proto-industrial revolution which would see me deposed before Margaery could pop out our first baby.

But if what I had in mind panned out, it would elevate me to a status in the Kingdoms not seen since the Targaryens still rode dragons.

“Your Grace,” Lady Olenna mocked, a hand over her chest as if in shock. “You shouldn't speak of buying the horse like that in front of it. It frightens the animal.”

“This prized mare is sitting right here, grandmother,” Margaery said. She turned to me with a honeyed smile and a perfectly arched eyebrow, and I just winked at her. “And I do believe I know the answer to your question, my love, crass as it was. Father generously told me about it last night.”

“So you twisted his pea-sized brain until he spat it out, did you?” Olenna asked.

“Nothing so heinous, grandmother. He simply had a bit more than usual to drink, nothing I engineered with the servants or anything like that.” Olenna rolled her eyes, and I had to hold in a wince. That explained Mace’s stomach problems, and reminded me to keep my kitchen staff separate from hers. “He told me the carriages are set to arrive later this week, my love. With a thousand-men force to guard it.”

I smiled at her, took her hand and brushed a kiss on her knuckles. Oh yes, that would come in handy later.

xxxx

That night, with the last matches set to happen the next day, Loras’ included, the court moved further away from the city to an open field, where a great white pavilion the size of a warehouse had been set up for the feast. Tables and benches were stuffed with freshly baked bread and pastries, boiled quail eggs and snails and strawberries and pomegranates and foods even I didn’t know the name of.

I had complained of the extravagance to Tyrion, citing that, like as not, the Kingdoms were still in debt; but he’d told me that while I could cutback on the winner’s purse for the games, it would be political suicide to be seen filching off on the feasts.

In the end, I relented, and spent half the night gorging myself on seven courses of fish and lamb and aurochs and seven different desserts.

Fuck it, I was king.

When the food stopped coming, the nobles mingled amidst the tables and on the dance floor at the foot of the dais that held the royal table. I did my duty as an honorable host and dove into the battlefield, with a glass of wine in one hand and only half a ear truly listening to the inane conversation of these gentle-birthed folk.

I fraternized and massaged egos until I couldn’t, and decided to simple call the beginning of the dance. The night had come with a chill, and I grasped my cloak closer around me as I walked up the dais again to make a short speech before the dancing began. I gestured to Ser Balon behind me, and he knocked on the wood of the royal table with his steel-plated fist.

I smiled genially as the crowd of highborn turned to me. “My lords, my ladies,” I said, “noble knights of the realm.”

Before I could truly start buttering them up, a gust of wind suddenly swept through the tables, snapping the cloth of the pavilion like firecrackers. It carried with it the salty smell of the sea, and the revolting smell of death.

I heard gasps coming from down at the tables, then a man’s horrified scream.

When I looked to the left, I saw it, standing by the edge of the table like a spectre. The demon was black as a graveyard, with its form twisting and writhing and screaming like it was in agony. I knew what it was, where it had likely come from, but the mind takes a while to perceive the unfathomable, and I froze a second too long. With a jagged blade of solid dark shadow in one hand, it lunged, straight at my heart.

But before I could even think of doing anything, Ser Balon moved. He shouldered me out of the way and into the table, and I crashed down on top of it on the dance floor. And from the ground, I watched as the shadow sword cut a gash on Ser Balon’s side, plate and all, like it was carving through paper.