The royal breakfast was a grandiloquent and tedious ceremony, where most of the nobles invited to the wedding gathered to eat while the king received gifts from his family and future in-laws. Apparently, the bride's presence was not allowed, for reasons Vlad had not bothered to understand.
Most likely, Lady Olenna should have been there, but in all certainty she had declined as politely as she could and sent her beloved son in her place.
One of the palace's inner courtyards had been prepared for the occasion, filled with headdresses and silks adorning floral arrangements and fountains among the gardens.
A long table crowned the courtyard, occupied by the royal family and Mace Tyrell, followed by several dozen tables where nobles from all over Westeros sat while eating appetizers and drinking wine.
Vlad sat at a table beside Oberyn Martell and Ellaria, who spoke quietly about the dull customs of the "northerners." To Dorne, everyone except themselves were northerners.
Mace Tyrell was the first to rise from the table, advancing with ceremonious steps as two servants carried an object covered by a velvet cloth.
—On behalf of House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Grace —he announced reverently— I have the honor of presenting you this wedding chalice. May you and my daughter Margaery drink from it and live long.
Joffrey smiled kindly, giving his future father-in-law a cordial look, something uncommon for the cruel bastard. Vlad was almost certain he had killed some girl the previous night; it was the only plausible reason for his good mood.
—A beautiful cup, my lord... —he leaned forward slightly, smiling— Or should I call you father?
Mace flushed with emotion, nodding like a dog.
—It would be an honor, Your Grace —he replied immediately.
As the presentation went on, Shae appeared among the servants, filling wine cups. Despite all his efforts, Tyrion had not managed to hide her in his chambers without her being noticed, so he had no choice but to place her as a kitchen maid. Normally, that kind of servant would never be seen, but not at a ceremony like this.
Cersei, seated beside Tywin, did not miss the chance to point her out in a low voice. She had long sought a way to harm her brother, and had recently discovered Tyrion had become far too entangled with that whore. Something she would happily tell her father.
—She's the whore I told you about. The dark-haired one —she whispered, without taking her eyes off the young woman.
Tywin barely raised an eyebrow, his face as stone-faced as ever. To him, it was nothing more than another of Tyrion's attempts to shame him.
—Bring her to the Tower of the Hand before the wedding —he dictated coldly.
It was not long before Tyrion stood. His squire, the loyal Podrick, carried a large, richly bound book, which he handed to his lord so he could present it.
Joffrey arched an eyebrow, clearly disappointed.
—A book? —he spat, barely holding back his disdain.
Unfazed, Tyrion adopted a diplomatic tone.
—The Lives of Four Kings —he explained— The chronicle of Grand Maester Kaeth on the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good. A book every king should read.
For a brief instant, silence fell over the garden. Joffrey seemed torn between his impulse to mock the gift and something else. At last, he forced a polite smile that unsettled Tyrion.
—Now that the war is over, I must find time for learning —he said pleasantly— Thank you, uncle.
Suspicious, Tyrion frowned as he returned to his seat, unable to take his eyes off his nephew. Joffrey being courteous was never a good sign.
Then, one of the gold cloaks stepped forward, carrying a sheathed sword in a luxurious scabbard topped with a gleaming golden pommel. Tywin rose slowly, with all the dignity of an emperor.
—One of the two only Valyrian steel blades in the capital, Your Grace —he announced— Newly forged in your honor.
Joffrey's eyes lit up with childlike excitement. Without waiting, he rushed to the guard and unsheathed the sword with an exaggerated flourish. The blade shone in the morning light.
Grand Maester Pycelle hurried to warn him in a trembling voice:
—Careful, Your Grace. Nothing cuts like Valyrian steel.
—So they say —Joffrey remarked with a twisted smile.
With brutal swiftness, he spun on his heels and, to the astonishment of many, began tearing apart the book Tyrion had given him. Each strike was clean, and pages flew across the garden.
Tyrion barely flinched at his nephew's cruel tantrum. This was far less disturbing than watching him act kindly.
A cruel laugh burst from Joffrey's throat.
—Every great sword must have a name —he proclaimed, raising the blade high— What should I call it?
The answers came from among the nobles attending the breakfast.
—Stormbringer —one ventured.
—Wolfslayer —suggested another.
—Widow's Wail —a third proposed.
Joffrey let out a dry laugh, savoring the last suggestion.
—Widow's Wail... —he repeated with delight— I like it. Every time I use, it will be like cutting off Ned Stark's head all over again.
A cruel smile spread across his face before turning into a grimace of anger as he remembered how Sansa Stark had slipped through his grasp. He had hanged several kingsguard for their incompetence, which only slightly eased his rage. But he would have loved to remind the little red-haired bitch that her family's ancestral blade now belonged to him... before splitting her in two with it.
Even he, however, knew better than to ruin appearances, so he drew a deep breath before sitting back down to resume his meal.
The chatter in the garden was interrupted by the silent arrival of a servant, who approached Tywin and whispered something in his ear. The Lannister patriarch frowned slightly, but rose with dignity.
—I will receive him in the Tower of the Hand —he said in a low voice, lifting his cup.
But the servant raised his voice to add:
—The envoy brings gifts, my lord. From a foreign king.
—A foreign king? And with gifts? —he laughed— Let him in. Let everyone see how even across the sea they must pay homage to my greatness.
Silence fell over the table for a moment. Cersei straightened, glancing at her father; this had been too sudden, and she disliked it. Tywin, however, remained impassive. Mace Tyrell looked scandalized at such a breach of protocol, but seeing the king accept it, he merely nodded.
The servant withdrew, and after a few moments, a middle-aged man entered, clad in a grey robe trimmed with silver, the sigil of the Iron Bank embroidered upon his chest, escorted by two goldcloaks through the gardens.
—Your Majesties, Highnesses, my lords —he said with a slight bow, without servility— I am Tybero Noé, envoy of the Iron Bank of Braavos —he explained, then added in a diplomatic tone— As an institution, we pride ourselves on being neutral, but above all we are officials who offer our services. Thus were we generously compensated to personally deliver these gifts.
He paused briefly before continuing:
—They come from His Majesty Vlad Drakul Targaryen, King of Meereen, who wishes to extend his greetings to the royal house of Westeros... and expresses his hope that you may soon meet in person.
The announcement rippled through the garden with a murmur. Every noble in Westeros knew, at least by rumor, of the wild king of Essos, the man who had wed the last Targaryen princess and even managed to hatch dragons. Many secretly hoped that this new king would march upon Westeros and seize the throne from lions and stags alike.
But that same dreaded king, who impaled his enemies by the thousands, sending gifts... no one had expected such a thing. Some glanced at Tywin, but Joffrey, seemingly oblivious to the implications of a face-to-face meeting with Vlad, burst into a scornful laugh.
—Come then, show us the gifts. What has the savage across the sea sent? —he said with satisfaction, making a gesture. Tybero raised a hand, and his attendants opened a large wooden chest, richly decorated. From within, carefully folded, emerged two cloaks.
—For His Majesty Joffrey Baratheon and for Prince Tommen: cloaks worthy of their noble lineage.
The cloaks, exquisitely made, gleamed with golden embroidery and patterns of symbols that enhanced their splendor.
A note accompanied the garments. Joffrey snatched it and read aloud with arrogance, basking in the attention:
"May your reign be remembered in song,
your name written in letters of gold in history.
For a king, gold is his emblem:
gold shall be his crown,
gold his shroud,
but the love he inspires shall endure forever."
The court seemed quite impressed by the gifts. Even Tywin's expression was complex, weighing the implications of such a gesture. Tyrion's mind, meanwhile, raced for an explanation that did not herald tragedy, but the offerings appeared to be a show of goodwill.
The only one who seemed displeased was Cersei.
The words of the short note stirred in her memory an old prophecy she had longed to forget, and a shiver ran down her spine.
But Joffrey remained blissfully unaware, laughing with haughty delight.
—This Vlad may be a savage, but he knows how to give fine gifts —he laughed harder— Even he knows I am destined for greatness.
Tybero did not react. Instead, he signaled for a second, smaller case to be brought forth.
—For Princess Myrcella, to be delivered personally to her honorable residence in Sunspear: a veil of the finest silk from Asshai. And this note:
He unrolled the parchment and read solemnly:
"To the purest jewel of the realm, who, wherever she may be, shall inspire love and loyalty."
Cersei's face softened slightly. For an instant, the mother within her overcame the queen. But only for an instant.
Then came a third gift: a crossbow of ebony with golden fittings, sober yet elegant.
—For Lord Tywin Lannister —the envoy announced— And a note as well:
"May your hand be steady."
Tywin spoke no word. He took the weapon with calculated composure, examining it like a craftsman judging the quality of a tool. Then he set it carefully at his side.
The next gift drew many gazes: a hand mirror of refined design, its border carved from crystal and mother-of-pearl. A rarity. A true mirror, of the kind almost no one in Westeros possessed. Cersei took it and read the inscription engraved upon its edge. Her eyes traced the phrase:
"Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, Who's the Fairest of Them All?"
The queen closed the mirror without comment. She merely set it on her lap with slow, measured movements. No one dared ask. To her, and to all of Westeros, it seemed a line appealing to the vanity of the supposed most beautiful woman in the realm.
Only Vlad would understand the irony of the ominous message.
At last, Tybero presented a small lacquered wooden coffer with ivory trim. He handed it to Tyrion, who opened it with caution. Inside lay a thick golden bracelet.
—For the Master of Coin, Tyrion Lannister.
The dwarf raised a brow, skeptical. For someone to show him respect was a novelty, but for gifts to be prepared for him on par with his family was a miracle.
The bracelet rested atop padded lining that filled the chest. Yet as he moved it, Tyrion noticed something more. The inner padding had shifted during the journey. Beneath the fabric lay a silver pendant: a simple jewel, delicately wrought, with a folded note beside it.
He opened it carefully. It read only:
"For that beloved one."
Tyrion said nothing. He smiled faintly, taking the accident as a fortunate oversight, perhaps destiny itself. That his family had not seen the pendant was a blessing; they would not recognize it should someone wear it.
He already knew to whom he would gift the pendant.
He pocketed the jewel and shut the coffer.